Deliver Me
by snowflake912
Summary: Meredith Grey literally crashes into the wreck that is Derek Shepherd's life. Battling with amnesia while locked in an isolated cabin with a man she has never met, she finds herself believing in him despite the telling evidence. MerDer AU
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own them. I'm just messing around with them.

Author's Note: Here I am, with a brand new fic! Although I must say my management skills when it comes to juggling fics is really quite lacking. But still, I'm giving it a try, trying to work around this story and WTHI at the same time. If I can't pull it off, this one will have to be shelved until I finish WTHI. Anyway, about this fic, it's rather different. It'll shock you at some points, confuse you a lot in the beginning.. but eventually things will start making sense. I think I'll have to refer to flashbacks in later chapters... anyway, the title is taken from a beautiful song by Sarah Brightman. Otherwise, I do hope you enjoy it!

**Chapter 1  
**"Take a look at my body.  
Look at my hands.  
There's so much here that I don't understand.  
Your face-saving promises  
Whispered like prayers.  
I don't need them."  
My Skin - Nathalie Merchant

* * *

He propped his shoulder against the doorjamb, arms folded critically against his chest, and stared into the average-sized bedroom. There was nothing special about the single bed in the middle, supported on both sides by two nightstands devoid of any personal touches. There was nothing beautiful about the plain white curtains, drawn firmly together to block the streaming sunlight. The closet against the wall boasted a rich kind of oak wood that gave the room a peculiar smell. He couldn't decide whether the ancient smell appealed to him or not. 

It was a mundane room.

And he wouldn't have glanced at it twice if it weren't for the woman lying under the sheets, her honey blond hair in desperate tangles across the white pillow, her delicate face lifelessly pale. The bandage he had placed on her head looked big and unprofessional, and it made her seem even more childish, smaller.

Unfurling his arms, he wriggled his thumb and index finger, swaying the glass bottle of beer between them, tapping it absently against his denim-clad thigh. The obscured golden light emphasized the gentle rise and fall of her chest under the crisp white sheets. It made him feel eternally grateful that she was still alive and that the bruises and cuts on her face were healing nicely with a promise not to mar the porcelain skin beneath.

She was lucky and beautiful, too slight for his taste, but he had felt inexplicably drawn to her.

Raising the almost empty bottle to his lips, he finished it off and turned on his heel, heading towards the kitchen where he tossed the green long-neck into the trashcan, relishing the disturbing _clink_ as it hit the bottom. He plowed his fingers into his unruly dark curls, frowning at how long they had gotten. Having always worn his hair short, he found the long bangs infuriatingly annoying but didn't bother much with them. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. His life had seen its tragic fall, and he no longer cared for anything but his freedom. And maybe for the woman in the bed, whose name he didn't know.

With a tired sigh, he walked back to what he had dubbed her bedroom, and he found himself staring not at her familiar still form but into the most stunning pair of gray eyes he'd ever seen. She was wide-awake, looking around in confusion, wincing in pain while he stood there motionless, trying desperately to work the muscles of his jaw.

"Where am I?" she croaked, struggling to sit up.

Spurred into instinctive motion, he rushed to her side and helped her bolster her frail body against the pillows he arranged behind her back. He held the glass of water he'd prepared out to her, letting the straw hover next to her lips. She looked at him curiously before taking a tentative sip and bringing a hand to her head gingerly.

"Does it hurt?" he asked sympathetically.

She barely nodded, her fingers flitting over the sheets, tugging them away to stare at the overly large clothes engulfing her slender frame. "Where am I?"

He wished he'd found clothes that fit her, but scouring the over-sized cabin hadn't proven useful. Dropping onto the plastic chair he'd positioned by her bed, he pushed back into it, studying her unwaveringly. She looked scared and confused, emotions he had grown blind to. "You're in a town a couple of hours outside Boston." It was a gamble, but his voice didn't miss a beat. "Do you remember what happened?" He waited quietly for her as she furrowed her brow and licked her chapped lips twice.

She stared at her battered hands in wonder. "The rain. I remember the rain. I couldn't see anything. I don't know why. I shouldn't have been there. I… It was dark…" She fell silent, her bosom vibrating agitatedly, and her arms moved restlessly around, searching for a resemblance, but he knew she found none when she accidentally knocked the glass of water off the nightstand, sending it and its tepid contents into his lap.

His reflex was quicker than the pull of gravity. The cool glass fell into his palm, and he came to his feet quickly, setting it aside and brushing away the water staining his faded blue jeans.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her eyes welling with ashamed tears. "I can't remember."

He leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on her thin arm, surprised by the electric jolt that traveled from the tips of his fingers to his very core. Their eyes met across the crackling air. "It's okay. Don't get upset, it'll only make things worse. You're probably still groggy from the accident," he said soothingly.

"The accident," she repeated, her voice heavy with incredulity. "I was… was I alone?" She was almost afraid to ask. Her eyes were terrified at the prospect, and he felt bizarrely protective of this willowy woman.

Awkwardly removing his hand from where it lay comfortably on the inside of her elbow, he started calmly, "Ms…" He trailed off, expecting her to supply a name, but she only managed to look even more stricken than before. And he felt his heart sink with both relief and dread.

"What's my name? Why can't I remember? Who am I?" Her voice rose with panic and twin tears slipped from her eyes over her smooth cheeks.

Impulsively, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her into his arms, desperate to calm her frantic thrashing. "Shhh," he whispered in her hair. "It'll be alright," he promised, but he knew it wasn't the complete truth. Things weren't going to be alright for either of them. Fate had tossed her right into the insanity of his realm, and there was no way he could let her escape, not at the cost of his own freedom. Instead, he held her tight until she fell against him, exhausted, a soft set of feminine curves fitting perfectly into his side. And his head pounded with the force of blood that rushed to his extremities, making his fingertips itch with the need to touch her. He wondered if she felt it too or if it was his overactive imagination playing tricks on him after days of complete solitude. Shifting on the bed, he set her away from him only to find that she had fallen asleep.

He smiled faintly, his face aching with the forgotten expression, and rearranged the pillows to make her comfortable before carefully laying her injured head against them. He tucked the covers around her shoulders and regretfully left her bedside to the comfort of the well-equipped living room.

He slumped into the ugly brown leather couch, hoisting his boot-clad feet onto the worn coffee table and reached for the dusty book he'd started reading the day before. _The Sun Also Rises_. The business card he'd used to bookmark his progress slid into his hand. He held it up, his thumb skimming the letters embossed in black against the professional white card.

_Derek Shepherd, M.D.  
__Head of Neurosurgery  
__Mount Sinai Medical Center_

He tore it in half twice, crumpling the sad remnants in a fist he shoved into his pocket. And then he focused on the words running along the pages, trying to make sense of them, but his thoughts were preoccupied with the nameless woman fast asleep in the guest bedroom. He remembered the fear in her gorgeous eyes, glimmering like liquid silver and the terrified look on her face that came with the realization that she didn't know anyone in the world, that her own name was a mystery. He knew the medical term, global amnesia, had seen it once in a patient suffering head trauma a lot more severe than hers, and he had witnessed how frustrating it could get. No matter what it meant for her, he was selfishly glad, pleased that the reckless decision to save her from certain death didn't spell the end for him.

But he knew that eventually her memory would come back, and she would recognize him from exclusive eight o'clock snippets of news, or the front-page of a national newspaper. When that day came, she would become his hostage.

Until then, he was content to think of her as his patient, his Jane Doe.

* * *

And that's that. I'll have the second chapter up sometime tomorrow or later today hopefully.

Please tell me what you think!

Thanks for reading!:)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing for fun.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reviewing the first chapter! I realize that it's still a bit confusing. It might get a bit more so this chapter... but I promise to start clearing things up come the next chapter. So please be patient with me. Read on and enjoy!

**Chapter 2  
**"I am colorblind,  
Coffee black and egg white.  
Pull me out from inside.  
I am ready.  
I am..."  
Colorblind - Counting Crows

* * *

"The door is locked," she deadpanned.

He hovered in the doorway to the living room, blinking at her sleepily, his black hair bed-rumpled. The same pair of jeans he'd worn the day before hung low on his narrow hips, like an after-thought, an unembellished necessity. And he was shirtless, the broad expanse of his muscular chest bare, dusted with a thrilling pattern of dark hair that swirled around his navel before disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

After an awkward pause, she raised her eyes to his, wishing he had worn something before emerging from the bedroom down the hall. But he hadn't, and the slant of his unshaven jaw was unrelenting.

"Yeah," he muttered dismissively, rubbing the sleep out of his blue eyes. The white socks on his feet made no apparent noise as he crossed the living room in four long strides, slipping into the adjoined kitchen. There was a faint creak as he pulled open one of the cabinets, a swish that brought to mind the refrigerator before he returned with a tall glass of orange juice.

"And the windows are locked," she continued, gray eyes stubbornly following his restless form. "Except for the one in the kitchen. That one has bars."

He stood in front of her, opposite the three-seat couch, his eyes steely as he leaned against a large chest of drawers and cabinets. He crossed his ankles and sipped his juice calmly. "Yeah, so?"

She pretended that his attitude didn't completely unnerve her. "So why am I locked in here?" Tugging at the sleeve of the huge navy sweater she was wearing, she pulled it over her hand defensively, raking her nails against the fuzzy material. Along the left wall, a modern fireplace was tucked beneath a bookshelf. She'd perused the titles, relieved to find that reading was something she could do easily. But none of the withered volumes had sparked a memory.

He twirled the viscous contents of his cup absently. "What makes you think I'm not locked in here?" One black wing of an eyebrow rose over his eyes, pointing at her challengingly.

She looked away from the alluring picture he made and glanced at the square-shaped window, feeling a chill race down her spine when the telling splatters of rainfall slapped the cool glass. The rain unnerved her. She could see flashes of these last moments before what he had referred to as 'the accident'. "You're not," she stated. "You saved me." The realization had lulled her through the early hours of the morning, a reassurance that this strange shady man wouldn't hurt her because he had obviously nursed her back to life.

"I want to check your head injury." His tone was clinical, clipped, and he gulped the last of the perspiring liquid before striding towards the kitchen again, refuting her attempt at gratitude.

It took her a moment to rise from the couch and grudgingly follow him into the tiled kitchen. It was small and clean with a rectangular table set against the wall, hosting two plastic chairs. The fridge was white and slightly rusted, its insistent drone lulling. She watched him raptly as he moved about with ease, reaching for an overhead cupboard and tugging it free of the loose magnetic latch. He brought down a red box, overflowing with a stock of supplies. He worked quickly, efficiently, choosing the needed products with precision. And she bit her lip because she couldn't help but wonder if the rippling muscles in his back were as smooth as they looked.

He turned suddenly, and she diverted her gaze in mortification but not before she caught the glow of amusement that lit his piercing eyes.

She blushed to the roots of her hair, frustrated that the involuntary flush of heat couldn't be controlled.

"Sit on the table," he instructed.

She complied wordlessly, setting her palms on the polished wood and lifting herself onto it. The tips of her muddy shoes brushed against the white tiles. They fit well, so they must have belonged to her.

"What's your name?" she asked him as he bent over the sink, thoroughly soaping his hands. The running water washed away the white soapsuds.

He turned the tap firmly and dried his hands on a yellow dishtowel that looked at least five years old. "Derek," he answered finally, stepping towards her. He set the materials he'd fetched earlier on the table beside her, careful not to touch her in the process. And then he came even closer, his stomach pressing into her knees as he gently framed her face with his warm, soap-smelling hands and drew it towards him. One strong palm fell down to her leg, sliding smoothly between her closed knees, coaxing them to part. And she thought she would faint at the convulsive ache that throbbed in her womb, deliciously dizzying. He moved slightly just so that he was standing right between her knees, and his warmth against her was reminiscent of another act, the memory of which made her breasts tingle.

"Those are healing well," he murmured, drawing her out of her stupor. He brushed the cuts on her face with his thumbs, his fingertips caressing as they traveled across her cheeks to her forehead about the line of her hair, and he worked the bandage off patiently. His fruity breath stirred the wisps of hair at her temple, and she thought she would go insane with the sensation.

"Just Derek?" she prodded loudly, the question falling oddly into the tense silence.

"Just Derek," he confirmed distractedly, raising a damp ball of pink cotton to her head. She winced when the cleanser hit the open wound. He dabbed it lightly and spread some sort of colorless cream with a cotton bud.

"You have no family name?"

He seemed oblivious to her uncomfortable fidgeting. "You're very chatty this morning. Have you remembered anything?"

She hadn't, but she was reluctant to tell him. Her eyebrows pulled into a deep frown.

"Don't do that," he chastised. "You're pulling at the cut."

She coaxed her features into a neutral expression, struggling to maintain it. "Do we know each other?" she bit out.

"No."

"Are you a doctor?"

If his feelings weren't so carefully cloaked, he would've looked just a bit stricken. But he remained stoic as he placed a clean bandage on her head and smoothed out the edges of the transparent plaster. "I was a doctor," he said slowly. "Why?"

She shrugged. "No reason. You just seem to know what you're doing."

His head jerked in what barely qualified as a nod and he moved away, gathering the used supplies and unceremoniously dumping them into the trashcan in the corner.

She stayed on the table, watching him intently through the fringes of her golden lashes. "Why aren't you a doctor anymore?"

He washed his hands with meticulous care. "Lots of reasons," he said vaguely.

"Were you a good doctor?"

"One of the best."

"Did you work in Boston?"

"Are we playing twenty-one questions?" he snapped in an angry voice, the stern line of his lips narrowing in annoyance.

She glared at his profile and swallowed the biting retort lingering on the tip of her tongue. Fighting him wasn't going to help her, no matter how infuriating he was. "This house is isolated." Bringing her feet tentatively to the ground, she caught the narrow windowsill and peered into the rain, but the horizon promised nothing beyond an endless forest of rich woods. "It doesn't look like people live here," she whispered pensively.

"They don't." Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw him look at her for a long moment, then his gaze moved to the fridge, and he pulled it open viciously. The barely balanced appliance wavered in protest. Derek took out a carton of eggs and placed it carelessly on the counter. The pan he'd set on the stove crackled to the flame beneath it. "What do you want to eat?"

She traced a circle with her well-trimmed nail and smiled bitterly. "I don't know."

"Oh." He uncapped a bottle of sunflower oil, pouring a generous drop into the sizzling pan. "I'll just make you some scrambled eggs, and you can decide if you like them," he suggested.

"Okay." She marveled at the fog her warm breath left on the cold glass. "I was alone," she said softly.

The rattling sounds of his agile movements halted altogether, and she heard him heave a deep breath. "Yes," he murmured.

"I could feel it today," she confessed, wrapping her arms around herself tightly. Her eyes stung in a strange sensation that made her feel weak. She defied it, willfully steadied her trembling chin and stared hard at the pouring water.

"Feel what?"

"Loneliness." In the periphery of her vision, he raked a hand through his dark curls, setting them away from his face. She slid her hand into the pocket of the loose navy slacks he had provided, fingering the smooth metallic object contemplatively. On an impulse she pulled it out and pressed it between her palms. "I found this." She swiveled to face him, holding out the single-stone diamond ring.

He stopped slicing the loaf of French bread and stared at her hand as though it was contaminated. "An engagement ring."

* * *

And that's that...

The woman is definitely Meredith btw. Just thought I'd clear that up... Anyway, she still doesn't know anything about herself, but she had a feeling. She felt lonely. She felt like she was a lonely person, and the presence of that ring confuses her. Not to mention how much it bothers Derek. Still, they know nothing about the ring, only that she found it, not on her finger (because he would've obviously seen it) but somewhere in her belongings.

Thanks a bunch for reading:)


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own anything!

Author's Note: Thanks a lot for all your reviews! I appreciate it :D! Here's the next chapter. It's hopefully a little bit more clarifying, well not really, but it gives you a glimpse into what's to come. I hope you enjoy it!

**Chapter 3  
**"He says he looks in the mirror,  
And he can't tell anymore,  
Who he really is and who they believe him to be.  
He says he walks a thin line  
between what is and what could be.  
And he's getting closer  
to something he can't understand."  
Fairytales and Castles - Lifehouse

* * *

He laid the knife on the kitchen table where it pointed menacingly at the circular slices of stale bread, and then rubbed his hands, dusting away golden crumbs that fluttered to the ground like glowing dust. Instead of reaching for the gleaming object as he was prone to do, he randomly selected three eggs from the carton and cracked them over the sizzling oil. "Where did you find it?" he asked finally, his fist closing around the fork on the counter. He used it to stir the contents vigorously, venting his frustrations on their breakfast, wondering how he could've possibly missed the ring.

Her voice was quiet, and she lingered behind him, barely two feet away. "In the pocket of my jeans."

"That's an expensive thing to have in the pocket of a pair of jeans. Try it on," he suggested, turning his face slightly. His stubbly jaw hovered above his naked shoulder as he watched her lower her gaze.

She linked her slender fingers together, pushing the fingertips of one hand into the knuckles of the other. "I did."

"And?" With a habitual shake, he added a trifle of salt and pepper to the cooking eggs.

"It's too big."

Yielding to temptation, Derek set the culinary items aside and turned to fully face her. He stretched out his hand, long fingers carefully extracting the ring from her hand, brushing against hers ever so slightly. His index finger glided smoothly over the cool gold until it fell into an inscription. "Look," he murmured. "It says something."

"Forever yours… TG," she recited softly.

Black eyebrows delved into a deep V over his narrowed blue eyes. "TG, sounds like someone's initials," he commented, his gaze drifting back to hers.

The slim row of her shoulders shifted in an unconcerned shrug. "Maybe. Do you think it's mine?"

He gave her a long hard look and shook his head firmly. "No," he said honestly.

There was a travesty of a smile fluttering against the rich puff of her mouth. "Why not?"

"You'd be wearing it, and it would fit you," he said reasonably, flicking the surface of the clean diamond with his thumb. Unaffected, the precious stone gleamed back at him mockingly.

"Whose is it then?"

"I don't know." He could feel her eyes on his back when he returned his attention to the pan. Ignoring the strange feeling her gaze invoked, he killed the fire on the stove and scooped the pile of scrambled eggs into a large blue saucer.

"Aren't you going to notify the authorities that you've found me?"

Derek slowly slid the plate onto the kitchen table alongside the prepared bread. "I'll do what I can," he lied, pulling out one of the plastic chairs. He nodded at the other, gesturing for her to take a seat.

She opened a cupboard beside the fridge and took out two small plates. Walking over to the table, she set one before him and the other on the opposite end of the table. "Why are you here?" she asked seriously, sitting on the edge of the white plastic chair across the table.

He took a fresh fork from the wooden holder, using it to heap a significant portion of eggs into his plate. "What do you mean why am I here? I live here," he answered pointedly.

Her hands were folded on the table next to the plate, and she gave him a prudent look. "Why do you live here? What are you running from?" she insisted.

"I'm not running from anything. I like it here," he mumbled over a mouthful of chewy bread.

She heaved a frustrated breath and leaned back into her chair, knowing that she wasn't going to get anywhere with him. "Okay," she relented reluctantly.

"Okay," he echoed, his eyes darting between her empty plate and her wandering gaze. "Eat your breakfast."

She fumed silently but obligingly stuck her fork into the saucer positioned midway between them. Steam rose from the fluffy pieces of egg she brought to her mouth. He watched as her full pink lips closed around the fork. When she pulled it out, it held a whispering hint of mist that made his throat tighten.

He coughed loudly and riveted his stare to his almost-empty plate, noticing for the first time the ring discarded beside it. Cupping his palm over it, he slid it across the polished wooden surface and removed his hand. "Take it."

She snatched it angrily, leveling a furious glower at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Is that the way you talk to everyone?"

He smiled at the fiery glaze in her blue-gray eyes. He hadn't seen anyone feel so strongly about anything in such a long time. It made a forgotten part of him feel awake and alive. "I, actually, haven't talked to anyone in a long time," he confessed.

"If you're not running away from anything, wouldn't you rather be in a place where there are actual people?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"People can't be trusted. It doesn't matter how close to you they are or once were. The moment you turn your back, they stab you. And sometimes it doesn't just hurt, it destroys." He regretted the words the instant they fell from his lips. She was disturbed by their morbidity, her gray eyes growing round in her pale face.

"Is that why you're here? Did someone destroy you?" The question was spoken too softly to spark the fire of rage. She held his gaze unwaveringly for the full length of a minute, but he knew that the steely glint in his eyes protected the façade.

"I don't know what to call you."

Her eyelids flickered, golden eyelashes teasingly ghosting over her cheeks. Disappointment wore her like an old robe, dragged too often through the mud. "My name," she realized impassively. "I can't remember it."

"I know," he said quietly, and he itched to reach across the table and raise her chin. "You can choose any name you like."

"I… I don't know." As if complying to an unspoken urge, she met his eyes with her own. "You choose."

"Okay," he said carefully, pretending to thoroughly deliberate the detail. "Jenny," he decided.

"Okay."

"You're not eating."

"I don't like it."

He shrugged indifferently and drew the bowl towards him, polishing the refuse of her breakfast off quickly. "You can take anything you want from the fridge. If you don't know what to do with it, just ask."

She nodded.

Derek pushed back from his chair, coming to his feet. He'd barely lifted his plate before she was beside him in a flash, delicately placing one tiny hand on his bare arm. The contrast of her milky white complexion against his own tanned skin was stunning. Her touch was light, soft but it sent his entire system stumbling into something that felt all too wild, and he was afraid she was growing on him. He moved his gaze from her hand to her downcast eyes.

"I… if you don't mind, I'll get the dishes. I'll clean up." Her hand lingered for a moment longer before it slipped away awkwardly. "I just need to do something because I keep thinking that…"

"Okay," he cut her off, nodding curtly. He brushed past her on his way out of the kitchen, suppressing the rising desire to glance back and marvel at how well she fit in the modest kitchen.

_The door to his extravagant office was pushed gently from the outside._

_He lifted his stare from the post-op notes perched on his desk to the familiar form of the man standing by the door. _

"_When did you last see her?"_

_Derek smiled humorlessly and leaned back into the high-backed leather chair. "Well, this is rich," he muttered, incredulous. _

"_I'm serious, Derek." _

"_Of course you are." He pinned the other man with a piercing glare that made him shift uncomfortably on the spot, but there was something resolute about the stubborn set of his broad shoulders. "Friday," he said quietly. _

"_You didn't see her over the weekend?" he prodded._

"_No. What's with the questions?"_

"_Weren't you at the Brownstone yesterday morning?" _

_Derek furrowed his brow. He was starting to get irritated if not angry. "It's interesting that you're spying on me." _

"_She's dead, Derek." _

"_What?" _

* * *

And that's that...

So Derek's not being the nicest person on earth at the moment... but that's understandable. She still doesn't remember anything, and they really sort of dismissed the ring as not hers. She's not convinced but Derek seems to be. The stuff in italics is Derek's flashback. No comment in that one -grins-

Thanks for reading:)


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Everything belongs to the amazingly creative people over at ABC and Shonda Rimes.

Author's Note: I would like to thank all of you who reviewed the past chapters of this story and continued to ask about it after it went on a very brief hiatus. Now, it's back! Read on and enjoy!

**Chapter 4  
**"Everything inside you knows,  
There's more than what you've heard.  
There's so much more than empty conversations,  
Filled with empty words.  
You're on fire when he's near you.  
You're on fire when he speaks.  
You're on fire burning at these mysteries."  
On Fire – Switchfoot

* * *

The chill seeped from the damp floorboard to the seat of her jeans, spreading there like a numbing force. She felt it in every inch of her body but fought a shudder before reaching past the attic clutter for the trampled frame. Her fingers were cold as they fastened around the edge of the framed photograph, bringing it and another waft of dust into sharp focus. The sunlight streaming through a tiny window in the roomy attic lit the particles until they glistened like gold.

It was a quiet morning, a swift contrast to the rainy night that had left her tossing and turning restlessly in the admittedly comfortable bed of what she assumed had once been a guest bedroom. With the rise of dawn, the racket of a seemingly endless storm had given to the peaceful chirping of reluctant birds and the seductive hums of a calming breeze. It was easy to discern sounds for what they were. As she smoothed the pad of her thumb over the thick layer of dust coating the glass over the photograph, she could hear the unmistakable pitch of footfalls against the brush and gravel. Her heart twisted uncomfortably when the front door rattled and was finally pushed open.

Two unfamiliar faces gazed back at her from the supposed treasure she had found. The immortalized image was beautiful, a happy moment captured on film forever. Against a background of endless snow, a man with remarkable green eyes had his arms wrapped securely around an equally stunning woman with flowing dark hair and topaz eyes that gazed lovingly at the towering form of the man who held her.

The ladder she'd found behind the kitchen door and positioned strategically against the hallway's wall in order to climb up to the attic protested with a creak under the weight of Derek's first step. She found herself holding her breath in anticipation, waiting for his dark head to appear through the trapdoor, wearing the customary scowl and a scathing comment on the edge of that sharp tongue.

She'd only been conscious for five days, during which she'd gone out of her way to avoid him. He didn't seem eager to be in her presence either, even if he forced her to eat with him, making sure that she had at least something reasonable for each of the three meals they shared. After breakfast, he would check on her head injuries, coming too close for comfort with his narrowed eyes and the unrelenting line of his firm lips. With curt pointed questions, he would ask about her memory, earning no more than a frustrated shake to her blond head. Part of her was hesitant to remember, afraid that what she was suppressing was something awful. That fear kept her on edge, and if that wasn't enough, every time she ran into Derek in the limited facilities of his cottage, the tension between them would mount a notch. When she'd heard the front door quietly open and close in the early hours of the morning, she'd been relieved.

His palms slapped on the floor on either side of the trapdoor, but she didn't turn to look at him. She stared instead sightlessly at the photo of a man and a woman whose features were enraptured with love and laughter.

"What are you doing here?" His quiet voice drew her head around slowly, and she caught the first glimpse of him.

He was sitting on the edge of the trapdoor, a dark ribbed sweater stretched across his broad shoulders, emphasizing the masculine structure of his chest. His legs were dangling through the square-shaped door, covered by the length of a pair of faded blue jeans that looked worn. The thick stubble on his jaw and chin had been shaved, leaving only a light shadowy reminder of its presence. He was frowning, but he didn't look angry.

"I'm… uh…" She looked down at the picture she still held and shrugged. "I'm just looking around," she said lamely.

Her grip on the frame went loose when he stretched his arm and gently tugged it out of her hand. He flicked his eyes over the image, and the lines around his mouth relaxed into what resembled a ghost of a smile. "Anything interesting?" he asked absently, carelessly swiping away the dark curls that tumbled onto his forehead.

"Just that," she lied, nodding towards the photograph. She'd found a box overflowing with a woman's wardrobe, but she didn't want to give him an excuse to take it away from her.

He lifted his sharp gaze back to hers. "You recognize them?" he inquired cautiously.

A frown settled over her features and she shook her head briskly. "Should I?"

"I'm not sure," he answered, and there was a surprising degree of honesty to the short statement.

Shifting her sore legs, she stretched them on the dirty floor and rubbed her palms mindlessly against her thighs. "Who are they?"

"The man is a friend," he said, setting the photo aside.

"He's handsome," she muttered, studiously fixing her eyes on the inanimate object. The insignificant act didn't help in ignoring the man whose presence had suddenly made the chilly attic warm and small.

"The woman is his wife," he told her snidely as if the fact would disturb her, and she was startled by the frown he was directing at her.

She cleared her throat and made a move towards the narrow passageway. "They're a beautiful couple." Her demure voice starkly contradicted the rigid stance of her posture. When he made no move to facilitate her escape, she raised her eyes to his. His indigo eyes were dark with an unidentifiable emotion that turned her insides into something as unsubstantial as mush. And now that she was kneeling right by the trapdoor, the threadbare material of her denim pants brushing against the outside of his thigh, he was much closer than she'd bargained for. "Let me down, please," she said on a shuddering breath, disconcerted that even with their current positions, his head still loomed above hers.

He ignored her softly uttered plea and raked her face with stormy eyes. She didn't resist when his hand caught her chin, gently tilting her head towards him. Leaning across the stifling air, he touched the corner of her lips with his. Nimble fingertips traced the shape of her jaw, following the smooth curve to her nape. He linked his fingers just below her hairline, and his thumbs stroked the side of her neck. Her heart was hammering in her chest long before he rolled his head and caught her parted lips in a swift, probing kiss. His tongue outlined her lips, dipping into their corners tantalizingly. She didn't think of stopping him as her hands came to rest on his chest, nestling against his warmth. Her whole body ached for the sweet pressure of his touch, and she could feel the tension that had been building between them for days start to dissolve into the melting heat of his urgent kisses. He pulled away slightly to run his open mouth over her chin. Light kisses rained across her cheeks before sliding down to her neck.

"Derek?" she breathed, but his name turned into a moan when his tongue glided over a particularly sensitive spot at the base of her neck. His large hands slid restlessly along her sides, pulling her closer. She gasped when she stumbled into his lap, her breasts flattening against the solid wall of his chest. She clasped his shoulders tightly, her nails digging into the soft fabric of his sweater as he lifted his head and crushed his lips to hers in a torrid, demanding kiss. And she knew she couldn't let this happen between them. Keeping her lips sealed under the persuasion of his skillful tongue, she pushed feebly into his chest. "No, stop," she cried, turning her face away. Her short choppy breaths were loud in the aching silence, and she was flushed with the ardency of his kisses. Her breasts were tingling with ungratified passion, her womb yawning forlornly. She heard him curse, felt his heaving chest expanding against her shoulder as he shoved an angry hand into the disarray of raven curls on his head. She was still half-sitting in his lap, painfully aware of the evidence of his desire distending the fly of his jeans. "I can't," she whispered, hastily wiping away the tear that coursed down her cheek.

"Why the hell not?" he asked plainly, his tone tinged with anger or frustration. She wasn't entirely sure, but she propelled herself forward, away from the fiery contact of their bodies, and sat with her back to him.

"I just can't." Remorse sifted through her.

"You want to."

She did, and it scared her. He was her captor. The reasons for their circumstance were still unclear, but she knew it as plainly as she knew day from night. She was being kept in the isolated cabin against her will. As tempting as it was, she couldn't fall into the arms of a man she hardly knew when she didn't even know herself. She couldn't gamble on a past that would give her that kind of freedom, and she wasn't about to. She remained silent, waiting for him to fill the void his brazen observation had created.

He released a loud breath that echoed in the attic before his shoe caught on the first rung of the wooden ladder. It groaned under his weight.

She listened until his shoes hit the carpeted ground of the hallway, and she was all alone in the attic.

----

The door to her bedroom slowly creaked open. Swallowing tightly, she looked up from the lightweight pale green wintry dress she'd retrieved from the box sitting beside her bed. With some difficulty, she'd managed to carry it down the attic-ladder and into her bedroom without running into Derek.

Now he stood in the doorframe, his tall, lean body standing dauntingly at the threshold to the mediocre room. One of his arms secured a large brownbag against his side. His eyes lighted briefly on her before flitting over the obviously feminine clothes littering the bed. He frowned in query and looked back at her.

"From the attic," she explained briefly. "I'm not taking them," she promised, and she didn't intend to. It would feel strange to wear clothes that had once belonged to another woman. She'd only hoped that the reminders of society might spark her memory of once belonging to such a world, but they hadn't.

He continued to stare at her imperceptibly. "You should take them," he said finally. "The woman they belonged to has probably long since forgotten about them. I'm sure she won't need them anymore." His shrug was indifferent as he hoisted the bag he was carrying. "I bought you clothes today," he said with a self-deprecating smile, strolling into the room casually.

It rankled her that he could pretend that what happened between them a couple of hours ago hadn't taken place at all when her body still warmed at the memory of his tender kisses. She masked her irritation with a tentative smile and carefully retrieved the bag from his arms. "Thanks," she mumbled, shifting to place the crisp brownbag at the foot of her bed. She didn't try to explore its contents or look curious about them.

Derek hung back with his hands shoved deep into the front pockets of his jeans.

"So you're not locked in here," she pointed out wryly, folding her arms against her chest protectively. She was wearing one of the blue, long-sleeved oxford shirts he'd given her, and she'd tied it around her waist, careful not to bare an indulging view of her midriff.

He cocked his head to the side and smiled humorlessly. "I'm not," he agreed.

"But I am."

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, he shook his head, disrupting the thick locks of hair on his head. "I didn't say that," he said patiently.

"You didn't have to," she replied evenly. She braced her knee on the edge of the soft mattress and leaned against it lightly.

"I'll take you out tomorrow," he surmised dismissively and turned around, starting towards the open door.

"Can't I go alone?" she snapped.

He paused, rested his open palm on the doorjamb and tilted his face to look at her. "No," he answered simply. "You might get lost."

"Or found." She knew she'd struck a nerve when his jaw tightened reflexively.

"Lost," he insisted. "The nearest town is an hour away by car. Nobody wanders to these parts of the woods." His ominous words made her heart feel heavy.

She bristled silently and didn't try to anger him further, lest he change his mind about taking her out. She desperately needed the change of scenery. Being in that cabin alone with him was driving her certifiably insane.

"Lunch is ready. I'll meet you in the kitchen, Meredith." He was halfway out when she heard her voice stall him.

"What did you call me?"

His lips twitched with impatience as he turned back to face her. "Meredith," he repeated, and the name sounded vaguely exquisite when it rolled from his lips.

"I thought we'd decided on Jenny," she reminded him with a curious frown.

Annoyed, he raked a hand through his hair and lifted his shoulders nonchalantly under the lush material of his sweater. "I changed my mind."

* * *

And that's that...

This chapter was pretty much loaded with things to talk about, like for example the ramifications of their reckless kissing. Meredith is still confused about everything and frustrated, and she can't control the way she's beginning to feel about him, which isn't necessarily romantic. Part of her is afraid of him and of everything he represents. His intensity scares her. That and the fact that she has no idea why he lives in that very isolated place and what it is he's done because she suspects that he's done _something_. So when he kisses her, she lets him, hoping that she could go through with it to relieve the tension they're living with. Not being able to go through with it (which really doesn't piss him off as much as it frustrates the heck out of him) really just makes everything worse.

And then he promises to take her out, and he calls her "Meredith" instead of "Jenny", which is the name he chose for her a chapter ago. It's not a random decision.

'til next time!

Thanks for reading!:)


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, except for unusual strange characters that happen to be strung along with the story.

Author's Note: As always, I'd like to thank you all for your wonderfully encouraging reviews on the last chapter. I'm having a very busy couple of weeks… sorry about the delay in posting this. I was actually rather stuck at one point, but I got that resolved. As promised, some answers are given in this chapter, though I'm sure most of you suspected what's coming.

Italics are flashbacks.

Read on and enjoy!

**Chapter 5  
**"I feel just like I'm sinking,  
And I claw for solid ground.  
I'm pulled down by the undertow.  
I never thought I could feel so low,  
And, oh, darkness, I feel like letting go."  
Full Of Grace – Sarah McLachlan

* * *

Dwarfed in his black jacket, she was a vivid eruption of beauty against the bleak off-white wall behind her. Golden hair stuck out messily from the distended collar, but she didn't seem to mind the errant tresses. The outside world, offered to her through the tiny peephole, enthralled her. Her slender hands, still colored with the fading shades of her bruises, rested palms down against the polished wood on either side of her head. 

Crushing his reluctance, he took a louder step in her direction, startling her into turning around swiftly.

With her cheeks glowing warmly from having impatiently waited on him and his insistent urge to have breakfast, she stood by the cabin's renovated wooden door, almost bursting with anticipation. It was an endearing sight to behold, but Derek expertly fought his smile, offering only a grim acknowledgement as he crossed the few steps separating them.

"It's not that cold," she protested when he carelessly wrapped a black scarf around her neck.

Under the jacket, he could see the white v-necked sweater he'd bought her the day before. Ignoring her restless fidgeting, he adjusted the scarf as best he could under the circumstances. "Seriously, Derek, I'm fine," she snapped at him grouchily.

Derek frowned and stepped back, struggling to keep his temper in check. He was racked with the temptation to release the frustrations she sparked in him. "You are," he agreed crisply, reaching past her to angrily shove his key into the door. After pulling it open, he made a grand gesture with his hand, ushering her out of the cabin.

She spared only a moment to level a scowl at him, and then dashed outside, greedily taking in their seemingly infinite surroundings. The sky was blue and boundless, thronged by a myriad of white clouds that glowed in the streaming sunlight.

It was another sunny morning, chilled by a frosty breeze that bit into his wind-burned cheeks when he followed her. The door to the cabin rattled into its frame with a firm thud. Stuffing his keys into the front pocket of his blue Levis, he stopped beside her wordlessly. She stood completely motionless, her gray-blue eyes fixated on the rich forest of woods that stretched beyond them. He tried not to notice the way the generous spill of golden light caught on her hair and made it shine invitingly.

She sucked in a sharp audible breath. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw her glance at him hesitantly. Torn between his inclination to remain cool and aloof and the unreasonable desire to meet her shy gaze, Derek found himself cocking his head ever so slightly to the side and lowering his eyes to hers. She had long sun-kissed lashes that teased her cheeks mercilessly. Her eyes were shockingly bright and blue, glittering with a feminine vulnerability that triggered an instinctive protectiveness he hadn't known existed. He didn't know whether or not the sudden need to shelter her appealed to him. In fact, he was pretty sure he didn't like the effect their prolonged eye-contact was having on him. At least, he had more control over his body than she did, he thought with triumph, listening with rapt interest to the strange pattern of her irregular breathing, unable to free himself of whatever force held their gazes transfixed.

He blinked, and the stunning eyes weren't there. The sardonic smile on his lips was private and full of remorse.

"Where are we going?" she asked finally, shattering the tense silence.

He'd thought being out in the open would ease the tension. If anything, he felt even more choked in the vast sea of emerald green, more inclined to snatch her into his arms and explore the endless possibilities she had given him a glimpse of the day before. "Where do you want to go?" he tossed back, slipping his hand into the pocket of his navy parka. His fingers encountered a tepidly warm cylinder that felt papery and leathery at the same time. Reverently pulling it out of where it had spent the better part of two months, Derek twirled the Cuban cigar between his thumb and forefinger, acutely aware of her unwavering stare and the way she blatantly ignored his question. He tucked the unlit cigar between his lips, allowing his teeth to sink into its bitten end. It tasted vaguely like wood and something strong that only revolted him for a moment.

"I didn't know you smoked." Her offhanded remark was belied by the curiosity lighting her eyes.

Derek studied her for several moments, during which she grew highly uncomfortable. She lowered her eyes and stared at the ground as if the key to her past were hidden there, just beyond her grasp. Self-consciousness made her shift her small frame from one position to the other. Disconcerted, he looked away to the very precipice of the trees where green blended with blue and heaven met earth. "I don't," he said softly. He imagined she raised her eyebrows incredulously, but he didn't look at her.

"Then…" she trailed off resentfully, unwilling to prod him further.

"I enjoy an occasional cigar," he imparted with a mocking flourish to which she offered an unimpressed perfunctory smile. "When it's lit," he added sarcastically.

Her smile became grudgingly genuine. Wrinkling her nose in an unguarded appealing gesture, she burrowed deeper into his engulfing jacket. "What does it taste like?" The question seemed like an indulgence on her part. She wanted to know what cigars tasted like.

He wondered briefly if she'd ever had one. He doubted it, not because she didn't seem sophisticated enough but because women usually abhorred the smell and wanted no part of the whole ordeal. Pretending to mull over her question, he took the object in question from his mouth and pocketed it. "Shit," he answered smugly, letting the profanity linger in the fresh morning zephyr. When he looked at her, she was pursing her lips in suppressed consternation. His mother would kill him if she were to see the crude monster he had turned into. "I'm sorry."

She was genuinely surprised by his apology. Her gaze snapped upwards in astonishment, and she looked like she was about to say something before he interrupted her.

"I hope your idea of going out isn't limited to standing a couple of feet away from the cabin," he drawled with practiced detachment.

Her slight shrug was almost impossible to discern under his huge jacket. He realized her hesitance with surprising clarity. Just as he had been stalling in the cabin, she was stalling now. He supposed the forest unconsciously scared her, and he knew why. She didn't. "I don't think I can," she confessed quietly.

"Of course you can," he said confidently, breezily. "Come on," he prodded. "You wanted to go out. So, lead the way."

The lips he'd kissed thoroughly, however briefly, opened and closed hesitantly before being drawn by straight white teeth and gnawed thoughtfully. "Promise you won't leave me here?" she asked seriously.

"Promise," he replied solemnly.

Satisfied with his less than earnest response, she braved the tumult in her heart and trudged ahead of him.

"_You have to understand, Doctor Shepherd, the authorities view you as their prime suspect. You have motive," the bald man explicated, one fat, mole-encrusted hand traveling to scratch an unbecoming scab on his hairless scalp. When his itch was relieved, he pushed back thick eyeglasses that made his unremarkable eyes eerily larger. He perused an important looking document, but Derek knew it was only for show. _

"_I'm their _only_ suspect," he corrected with an angry glare at the elder, stouter man. "I'm aware of that, Mister Harp. I'm paying you the fattest check you'll ever see to fix that," Derek continued silkily, barely containing the burning rage within him. "Can't you bail me out of this hellhole?" he hissed when the overpaid lawyer continued to fixedly stare at his file. _

_Henry Harp looked up and into his eyes briefly before closing the file and patiently placing it on the battered table where they sat across of each other. "I'm working on that," he replied smoothly. _

_Derek's palm slapped the tabletop loudly, rattling the off-balance slab vigorously. "Work faster," he bellowed, earning a withering glower from the guard positioned by the closed door. _

"_We're working at a possible dead-end here, Doctor Shepherd," Henry said with commendable tolerance, and Derek knew they weren't just talking about bailing him out of prison. _

"_I don't need to hear that." _

_He shrugged beefy shoulders and rose almost thankfully at the guard's silent signal. Derek watched him stuff manila folders and papers into an expensive-looking leather briefcase. "Crying at her funeral would have been a nice touch," he remarked moments before being led out of the cubicle._

_Derek held a tightly clenched fist against his lips, muttering, "son of a bitch."_

----

It had rained on their way back to the cabin. She'd never thought she'd be relieved to see the well-kempt, cottage-like structure. When they had stepped into its relative safety, their attires dripping into growing puddles on the tiled floor, Derek had ushered her into her bedroom and ordered her to take a long warm bath. Her protest to his undisguised demand had taken the form of asking him what he was going to do. He'd promised to have a fire burning in the hearth.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged from her bedroom, showered and dressed in clean dry clothes. The fire he'd promised was crackling warmly in the cozy living room, wreaking a comforting orange glow on the familiar objects. He'd cleaned the mess of their arrival. She felt her lips tilt in a smile as she turned towards the kitchen, intent on fixing them two steaming mugs of hot chocolate to chase the chill away.

Retrieving the necessary items, she set them on the kitchen counter and proceeded to mimic what she had seen Derek prepare on several occasions. As she dumped spoonfuls of the brown powder into a mug, she allowed her mind to wander.

_Meredith shoved at a pointy tree branch that poked her side, starting to tire of their fruitless expedition. He didn't utter a complaint on her leading skills, didn't even attempt to guide her. He was oddly comfortable in the wild terrains. "How long have we been at this?" she breathed, aiming for a light tone. It came out garbled and resembled a grumble that had her wincing. _

_His voice was unaffected. "A little over an hour," he reported._

"_Maybe…" The horrified scream that pierced the damp atmosphere was her own. She'd stopped dead in her tracks as the awful sound slipped into her throat. Derek was behind her almost instantly, and she turned to him, burying her face in the opening of his parka, trembling with shame and irrational fear. _

_He obliged by mindlessly wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. "What the…" and suddenly that confused half-question turned into complete silence. "Meredith," he said, and she could swear there was laughter in his voice. "It's a squirrel that happens to be some predator's lunch. The ants are just taking advantage," he told her as if the scene was fit to be described over dessert at a ridiculously expensive restaurant. _

_Turning her face but keeping herself within his grasp, she glanced at the miniature massacre and shuddered._

"_You're such a girl," he teased. _

She smiled now at the unusual lightheartedness she'd discerned in him. Pressing her face to his chest had been unnecessary, but the temptation had been too great. His tantalizing manly scent had surrounded her, a clean woodsy smell that wafted from the jacket she'd borrowed and the scarf he'd secured around her neck. On him, it smelled alive and seductive as she'd known it would.

Carrying the two steaming mugs by their ceramic handles, she hesitated briefly before walking into his bedroom, the door to which he'd left slightly ajar. She'd never been into the lavish chamber and was surprised by the richness of its furnishings. It seemed this room alone had been refurbished and polished to suit a wealthy owner. Under a ceiling painted a most comforting creamy shade, a king-sized bed was swathed with dark blue sheets, neatly folded and made. There was one nightstand. To her left, there was the bathroom door, through which she could hear the shower-spray. The right side of the surprising room housed a long sofa against one wall, offset by a compact glass table where several remote controls sat next to a coaster-holder. On the opposite wall, a wide plasma screen television was hung professionally. Beneath it, there was what resembled a modest entertainment center. With a gasp, she rushed towards the makeshift living room, her socked feet sinking into the lush beige carpeting. Setting two coasters to protect the glass, she placed the mugs on them and snatched the remote control that read the television's label. She hit the power button, bringing the TV to life on the channel Derek had last watched.

A woman with long black hair was speaking seriously to the camera. Meredith increased the volume and stared at the screen unwaveringly.

"… _with updates on his case. New York State authorities have reported claims that escaped convict Derek Shepherd was seen buying a newspaper in an unrevealed location in New Jersey. Police are unsure if the identified man is Shepherd, who was found guilty for the murder of his wife in a trial that lasted…"_

She froze in her seat, feeling the color drain out of her face, desperately trying to convince herself that the names were a coincidence. They weren't in New Jersey, were they? There were a million Dereks in the world. The one she knew pushed open the bathroom door, wearing nothing save for a white towel that had been haphazardly knotted around his lean waist. His dark indigo eyes landed on her then drifted to the lively television, and he went completely, frighteningly still. It couldn't be the same Derek, she told herself reasonably. What were the chances? But when her eyes went back to the screen he was raptly staring at, his face was mirrored in a displayed photograph.

The odds had turned against her.

* * *

Thanks for reading:) 


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own them, but I wish I do.

Author's Note: I just want to thank you all very much for leaving your thoughts. They're extremely motivating and inspiring. It's interesting to see how everyone is perceiving this… so thanks a lot. I really appreciate it! Anyway this chapter doesn't have a lot of conversation… there'll be more of that in the next chapter. There aren't a lot of answers at this point, but everything will come out and soon… not sure how soon, but soon enough. Read on and enjoy!

**Chapter 6  
**"I am milk.  
I am red hot kitchen,  
And I am cool,  
Cool as the deep blue ocean."  
Milk – Garbage

* * *

It was like stepping into an alternate universe or a twilight zone between the harsh reality and a fabricated fable that ached to be unleashed. The serious austere tones of the faceless woman with long dark hair had sent the world she had come to know plunging into an indefinite abyss of darkness. That voice now hummed indistinctly, barely audible, like an audacious whisper on an intimacy too private to be breached. The sound rhythm of her own heart blared much louder in her ears, an irrationally fast pattern, one that made her doubt the infallibility of her weakened limbs.

The loudest sound was embodied by a stark deadly silence. It pierced her mind like a brave sword edging past the murky and right into the cowardice of her fear. And she did fear him, his wrath, the undeniable potential in the suddenly cool glint of his spearing gaze. Her knees felt weak, her arms heavy, her hands clammy, but she had fashioned her face into an expression she hoped was half as indiscernible as his was.

He hadn't moved a single inch from the threshold of the open bathroom door, his midnight-blue eyes no longer pinned to the screen but to her face, sizing up a potential enemy. The steam that had followed his emergence from a hot shower had succumbed to the late afternoon chill, fading to nothingness a mere minute after the electric explosion that had left them with this formidable silence. His scrutiny held her in place, and she became unsure of her footing in the strange game of predator and prey. Had she been his prey, would he have let her live this long? Was it hopeless to resist the fate of his murdered wife?

She swallowed. The forced action that only served to remind her of how parched her mouth was must have visibly constricted her throat because his stare followed it, and she thought she glimpsed a softening crack in his veneer. His bland expressionless face effectively dissuaded the hopeful musing.

Derek stepped forward, one hand reaching to nonchalantly tuck in the towel that had been noticeably slipping for minutes.

He was a murderer.

Fleeing wasn't an option at that point. She shrank into the pliant couch, seeking refuge from the domineering stance of his casual though stiff stroll towards her. She prayed for her life, but pride kept her from begging for it even as his strong arm stretched across the small glass table.

The television's remote control was viciously snatched from the gleaming surface, but the power button was pushed with deliberate softness. Gone was the hum. He replaced it and shoved a hand through the dark wet tresses that swept his forehead dauntingly. His eyes then fell on the mugs of hot chocolate, their steam as robbed as that of his shower, and his lips curved in a sallow, empty smile. It was a pitiful expression, and it did something disquieting to her clenched heart, which seemed to have been caught in an unrelenting iron-clad fist. She couldn't forget the hopelessly clear picture of his face, broadcast on television channels, an image of the man who stood before her. Her vulnerability frightened her more than anything.

"I would like to get dressed." The matter-of-fact statement accompanied by the slight inclined nod of his dark head towards the door was incredulous. His fingers fastened to the edge of the blasted towel, toying with the precarious knot in a gesture not meant to be provocative but preoccupied. He was in no position to be provocative, but God help her, she was provoked.

Meredith opened her mouth, inwardly willing the right words to tumble from her stricken lips, but none came. There wasn't a trace of expectation on his face, only a tried patience that ran as deep as the shallow reflection of his eyes would allow. Whatever patience he had been clutching was beginning to slip as surely as the towel he kept a secure hold on.

"Unless you would like to watch," he began with a crude intimation of innuendo in his tone, but she cut off the continuation of the sentence with a sharp glare in his direction. He retorted with one of his dark scowls.

The animosity was good, she thought. It was familiar, but dread had tempered with it until hers was mild compared to the fiery battles she'd waged against him. And she still couldn't find it in her to speak. With dignity and poise, she rose from where she sat on the long couch, glancing only at the abandoned beverages before sweeping past him, senses acutely awakened by his utter masculinity.

As she walked out of the bedroom, her steps as leaden as she'd anticipated, she knew she had to escape.

----

There were eight vertically jagged cracks in the ceiling.

She'd counted them on nights before this one, when things had seemed deceptively simple if mind-boggling, because the lulling mantra of singing numbers in her head helped her sleep. She wasn't trying to sleep. She was thinking, plotting the impossible, but the fissures in the standard white paint kept blurring in and out of focus, drawing on her thoughts. Whatever she'd been before this whole charade that had stolen her memory, she certainly was a horrible judge of character. She would have never pegged a man like Derek—Derek Shepherd—as a murderer. Secretly, she'd believed that despite his unusual circumstances he was a decent man, a man who had nursed her back to life, a man who made sure she was comfortable even if he hated to divulge his concern. That vision was as shattered as her ambience.

No pleas of denial had erupted from him. As far as she was concerned, his silence was a confession of guilt all too loud in its respect.

Rubbing her eyes wearily, she shifted her head on the soft white pillow, rustling the covers she'd plopped over. It was still early into the evening, hours before she planned to escape.

A perfunctory knock sounded on the door to her bedroom. She inhaled sharply and boosted herself into a sitting position against the brief headboard, drawing her knees protectively to her chest. He opened the door, letting it swing gently out of his hand to reveal the room. Dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans, and a thin gray sweater that clung to his arms and torso, he watched her with a spark of interest too timid to be threatening.

"Dinner?" he offered politely, looking unruffled and unconcerned.

That mocked her, but she didn't dare breathe a word of the pretense. Instead, she felt herself nod slowly. "Yeah," she murmured, coming to her feet quickly under his watchful gaze. She followed him to the familiar small kitchen, automatically reaching for the cupboards to set two identical plates on opposite ends of the modest table, wondering when she had begun to think of their meals as routine. The thought was pushed far into the depths of her mind as she sat on the edge of her chair, nearest the door, feeling like a rabbit caught in a hopeless trap. He slid a large plate with four grilled cheese sandwiches on it onto the table and took his chair calmly. Twisting in it, he reached for a forgotten assortment of fresh vegetables: basil, cucumbers, tomatoes and mint leaves.

Her fingers drummed tensely against the sharp edge of the table, making a low incessant noise that he didn't comment on though she was certain he noticed. He took one of the sandwiches, his eyes quietly inviting her to eat. She held out stubbornly, staring at him unabashedly as he bit into the sandwich and munched on the legumes.

"You lied to me," she said steadily, her quiet voice sounding sure, but her insides quivered.

He paused mid-chew and lifted eyes, the color of the ocean, to hers. His noncommittal stare was cool and slightly amused. "About dinner?" he taunted sardonically, shrugging his broad shoulders under the soft sweater. "I never said it was anything fancy."

She ignored his sarcasm and the unsettling set of his firm jaw, clinging to what little courage she had conjured during her reflections. "You lied to me about the reason you live here. You said you weren't running from anyone, that you liked it here," she reminded him, and she recognized the notion of beating around the bush in their unhurried exchange.

"I'm not running from anyone," he asserted, the first hints of a frown coming to his handsome face. "And I do like it here."

She couldn't control her scoff or the disbelief that flashed in her eyes. "I can't pretend," she muttered, shaking her head adamantly, fearing that she was insane for tempering with his mood. She had nothing to lose, she reminded herself wryly, nothing that she knew of anyway. If he killed her, it wouldn't really matter because whoever had cared for her probably already thought her dead, and she had no one to miss. Except him, maybe. The intrusion of that idea slapped her, and for a moment, she lost her carefully constructed composure. Her lips tightened in apprehension.

"You don't know that. Maybe you were an actress," he mocked, raising an attractive eyebrow at her, indigo eyes darkened with cynicism, and she knew he didn't believe the ridiculous supposition anymore than she did. Perhaps he even knew otherwise.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked tightly.

Derek set his unfinished sandwich on the plate, his appetite apparently vanished. "You brought yourself here," he replied honestly, and she wished he would elaborate. "You should eat," he said suddenly. "You haven't eaten since before we left this afternoon."

Had their forest escapade only been hours ago? She found it hard to believe that such a significant change could happen in so brief a time. "Why should I believe you?" she whispered, staring at him in palpable confusion. In retrospect, given their predicament, it was a stupid thing to say.

The strong fix of his jaw tightened until a familiar muscle jerked in barely contained rage in his cheek. "You shouldn't," he said smoothly, shoving his chair back under protesting squeaks. He was dismissing her, and she hated it almost enough to pick a fight and replace the cold detachment in his empty stare with a fiery anger. His form loomed ominously as he dug his keys out of his pocket, offering no explanation as he left the kitchen and jiggled the cabin's door open.

She didn't look after him. Taking one of the sandwiches he'd prepared, she nibbled lightly on the bread, believing that she must have liked grilled cheese.

----

The clock on her right nightstand was matter-of-fact and practical.

It blinked the time at her in green digital numbers that were mute enough to be ignored when she wanted to sleep and clear enough to be seen in the darkness. It was after three in the morning, and the rain was relentless. She almost dreaded having to leave the relative comfort of Derek's cabin because the rain frightened her… and beyond the rain, there was the forest. Her heart thudded painfully, and her stomach knotted in a protesting clump that refused to unfurl.

Meredith pulled on her long beige coat although it was ripped and quietly crept out of her bedroom. She hadn't taken anything of his, even though she realized her plan to reach the nearest town on foot in her tattered clothes was certifiably crazy. The perception was firmly set aside as she made her way down the hallway and paused for a brief moment by his bedroom door, left wide open. She peered at his sleeping form. Even in slumber, there was nothing relaxed about his awkwardly sprawled long limbs, but the rise and fall of his chest was even. The keys sat innocently on the nightstand. Holding her breath, she took step after hesitant step into the room, careful not to make any sound. When her hand closed around the keychain, she held it tight and still, lifting it from the clean surface. She cast a look in his direction.

He hadn't stirred. His breathing was still even. A wave of wistfulness washed over her awkwardly, and she noted the thick sooty lashes resting against his cheeks, the interesting imperfection of his nose, the fullness of his lips, and his hair lying negligently across his temple until she itched to brush it away. She left the room on quick agile feet and reached the front-door with breathless anticipation. The key fit well and easily. She turned it, releasing the lock, emitting a low _click_ that made her sick with panic.

It was raining in sheets that were hard to see through, but the air was fresh, and the notion of freedom enticing. Stepping onto the shaded porch, she gently closed the door after her, having left the key on the inside. She didn't wish to inconvenience him. Meredith stood on the renovated porch steps for a moment, letting her fear of the unknown seize her, promising herself that she would crush the fear after that.

But her promise was as substantial as the cloud of smoke that followed her breath.

The sound of the door opening was unmistakable.

She took one fearful glance over her shoulder to find him towering in the doorway before she plunged into the rain and started running.

* * *

Thanks for reading:) 


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own Grey's Anatomy or any of the characters. They all belong to Shonda and all the nice people over at ABC.

Author's Note: I'm really sorry this chapter is so late in coming. I've had a hectic week, and a nasty case of something that resembles writer's block with this chapter. I'm not a big fan of the way it turned out. I actually don't really like it, but it's some sort of filler/builder, and I need to move on with the plot so… here it is. I hope you find something in it to enjoy. Thank you all so much for all your amazing reviews. Seriously, they never fail to blow me away. So thanks a lot. It's great to get to read what you guys have to say about this. Read on!

**Chapter 7  
**"When I've almost had enough,  
Something about you draws me back again.  
When I've almost given up,  
Something about you pulls me in."  
Falling – Mindy Smith

**

* * *

**

There was a strange intimacy to the way she blended with the raging storm, a quiet rhythm with no real tune. The sound of her heart mimicked the tempo of a tribal melody, drumming hypnotically in her ears, meshing with the incessant pounding of the rain and the thump of her boots colliding with the muddy ground. Essentially, she felt shielded by the ease through which she slithered past the rain, but she was afraid. She knew he was following her. She could even intimate that he felt even more strongly connected to the elements than she did because the rain brought back angry flashes that refused to become lucid. On that conviction, she never looked back as her arms sliced through the air, growing noticeably heavier with the generous spill of water. By the time she'd covered the clearing between the cabin and the forest, she was gulping at the scarce oxygen greedily until her lungs felt like they were burning.

She didn't have time to hesitate before darting right into the thick web of tangled wooden limbs and ancient trees. She came to a sudden halt, startled by the darkness, willing herself to keep moving, but her eyes blinked rapidly, desperately trying to adjust. Panic hovered on the brink of her rationality, slowly creeping in to take over. The faint slump of his footfalls grew closer, spurring her into the game of predator and prey. Instinctively, she dashed forward, dropping her drenched coat when the torn edge caught on a random stalk and it became too heavy to carry around. She didn't think about blindly navigating through unfamiliar territory, secretly taking comfort in the fact that if her fears of the forest itself and the rain were realized, Derek would be there. Her forearms acted as shields from the awkwardly jutting branches. Bursts of adrenaline kept her surging, but she knew she wasn't going to get far. He was getting closer, the sound of his footsteps now almost as loud as the rain but faster and stronger. She dropped her arms to her sides and ran heedlessly, grimacing in pain when her forehead was cruelly slapped by a fort wooden branch. In the dark maze, she felt his body collide with hers from behind, his arms catching her around the waist like bands of steel. The momentum of his weight crashing into hers sent their entwined forms to the ground, but she didn't suffer the impact of their fall. His shoulder bit into the ground forcefully, and his arms tightened around her. Meredith didn't dwell on it. She flailed her free arms frantically, fighting the excruciating hold he had on her, landing effective kicks with the heels of her shoes against his shins.

"Damn it, stop!" he grunted furiously and rolled her away from his soaked body to the ground, pinning her beneath him.

She thrashed like a frightened animal fighting for the instinct of survival. When she raised her knee to slam it into his groin, he hissed a low expletive and hooked one hard thigh over both hers, holding them down. She gasped for breath under the pressure of his body sprawled across hers, the struggle dying out of her a slow painful death like a fish ripped out of the ocean slowly realizing its painful demise. They stayed like that for a stretch of time she couldn't define. It was surreal. It could have been a minute or hours or an eternity. He was bent over her like a human shield, his wet dark tresses of hair dripping on her face, but she couldn't see him. His form was shadowed in the cloak of darkness. She was shivering and panting, her hair plastered to her skull, her chest heaving against his. A clap of thunder rattled the giant trees, followed by a flash of lightening that lit his rugged face, which was drawn close to hers, hanging in exhaustion. His breathing was as hard and rough as hers, and his eyes narrowed in an emotion that resembled concern. When the black sheath returned a short moment later, she knew that was ridiculous, but he murmured another curse as he shifted, keeping her nailed to the ground with his heavy bulk.

It was over.

She slammed her eyes shut against the cold, dreary reality, going completely limp beneath him.

Her broken sob sounded far.

----

She moaned pitifully, slowly being lured out of a deep entranced grogginess that held a temptation of its own. Although she was being attacked by a vicious pain, there was a peculiar kind of bliss to the muddled confusion. She didn't know who she was, or where she was, but she felt the undeniable presence of another human being, the rustle of a quiet movement, the hypnotic rhythm of a steady breath. For a moment she reveled in it, succumbing to the luxury of ignorant bliss, unable to push aside the feeling that whatever awaited her was horrible.

It didn't last long.

The sudden feeling of awareness began in her aching muscles that felt sore and strained from exertion, and then she felt the stiff barely used mattress against her back. Reality struck true to its form, crashing with a stifling force that made her gasp aloud.

She heard herself just as she heard the low masculine voice mutter a quiet apology.

She didn't know who she was, but she knew she was back in Derek's cabin, in her bed. He was hovering above her, his firm fingers fastened to her jaw, holding her head still. She panicked briefly when she realized that the source of the stinging pain was her head and that turning it away was made impossible by his unfaltering hold.

"Careful, don't move," he murmured.

She didn't have much of a choice. Under his instructions, she kept still, wincing when the sharp point of a needle plunged into the taut skin at the line of her hair. She pried her eyes open forcefully, ignoring the dull ache that throbbed in her temple, and blinked to adjust to the pale lamplight. His image came into focus gradually, turning from a complete blur to a vivid contour enhanced by thick ebony locks, a furrowed brow, and narrowed blue eyes. He was leaning towards her from the chair positioned by the bed, and he was holding a needle to her forehead.

The needle penetrated another pore.

"I'm sorry," Derek apologized earnestly, pausing to evaluate his work. He seemed pleased because he gave himself a slight nod before returning to the task at hand, which she realized was stitching up her forehead. She must have cut the wound open during her daring dash to freedom. It didn't really hurt. His touch was light, the needle warm, his fingertips on her chin distracting, but her head felt open. The rush of frustrated breath that left his lips landed on her cheek in a hot puff. "The first time I did this, you were unconscious. You're not that lucky this time, and I don't have any anesthesia," he continued conversationally. Strangely enough, she understood the numbing effects of anesthesia. A couple of random, foreign brand names popped into her mind, but she couldn't concentrate on them long enough to decipher anything useful. "Are you feeling okay? You've been running a fever," he told her, a touch of worry coloring his usually empty voice.

She stared at him silently because it wasn't awkward to do so when he was so close. His concern brought back the first of last night's fuzzy memories.

"_Meredith, don't cry. I'm sorry," he whispered fiercely, his large hands achingly gentle as they cupped her shoulders and lifted her off the ground, pressing her against his crouching form through layers of soaking soiled cotton. She let him hold her under the torrents of rain. Through green leaves cast in somber gray, fat droplets of ice-cold water splattered in tiny explosions on their intertwined bodies until Derek pulled away. "Did I hurt you?" he asked urgently, cradling her trembling chin with his palm. Her sobs had become soft cries that didn't fade as she shook her head in vigorous denial._

"Meredith," he tried again, smoothing his thumb tenderly over the completed sutures. "How do you feel?"

She tried to swallow, but the soreness in her throat made it almost impossible to breathe after that. Tears gathered in her eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"My throat," she croaked, turning her face away from him as a tear slid down her cheek. The back of his hand felt cool against her forehead. Her breath hitched when it was replaced by his lips. He pressed them to her feverish skin briefly, a professional gesture that felt utterly personal and sent her senses into haywire.

He straightened to his full height, one hand rubbing his neck wearily. "I can't tell if it's an infection. I'll fix you something hot," he said decisively, but she caught a sliver of panic in his indigo eyes. Last night, those eyes had grown dark and stormy as the angry sky, an endless blue that almost glittered like onyx, burning into her with such tangible concern. It had only made her cry harder. She'd placed her cheek on his shoulder obediently when he pulled her into his arms and opted to carry her all the way back to the deserted cabin.

"_I'm sorry I can't let you go. I'm so sorry," he whispered._

"Don't go."

She didn't know who was more surprised by her softly uttered plea, him or her. His sharp eyes snapped back to her face after aimlessly wandering for minutes on end, and he stared at her ruthlessly, trying to see past an anticipated charade. She didn't know what to make of the look he gave her, but she overcame her own shock by attributing her strange request to the deliriums of fever.

"I'll only be a minute. Don't worry. You're going to be fine," he promised and disappeared from her bedroom before she could protest. She wasn't going to.

Golden hair pressed back into the clean white pillow, Meredith closed her eyes slowly, cautiously avoiding any movements that may disturb her battered body. The escape seemed like a dream now with the first hints of dawn peeking through the drawn shutters, mocking her with yet another clear morning. The walk back to the cottage in Derek's arms had been long, longer than it had taken to sprint across the clearing with adrenaline pumping through her veins. This time around, Derek's arms protected her from everything except the man himself, and it was an unsettling feeling. She'd felt _safe_, which was crazy because she'd sought to escape _him_. While she'd expected his treatment to be of rough anger, he'd been gentle and caring, genuinely worried. She supposed it was the doctor in him.

_Do no harm._

What had been explicitly clear last night became interlaced with uncertainty. She couldn't imagine him taking someone's life in cold-blooded murder, not after he'd saved her when he could have let her bleed to death. Being a doctor, he would have known she couldn't have gotten far with the gash on her forehead bleeding so profusely. _She _knew that. She didn't know how she'd gotten out of her muddy clothes, and she didn't remember if she stopped crying. That meant he must have undressed her after she'd passed out. The intimacy of the act left her breathless for a moment, her skin prickling with heat.

Derek cleared his throat as he strode into the room, accompanied by a dizzyingly delicious aroma. She reopened her eyes to find him in the chair, setting a tray with a bowl on it from which the aromatic steam rose on the cleared nightstand. She met his gaze, but he looked away too quickly.

"Chicken soup," he explained unnecessarily, gesturing towards the unadorned white bowl.

"Smells good," she whispered hoarsely. The effort made it feel as though a cat was dragging its claws down her throat. Mustering up her energy, she hefted herself against the headboard. He interfered instantly, helping her prop up the pillows, reminding her anew of the day she'd first woken up in the cabin. She sat up weakly, steadying the tray he gently slid onto her lap.

"This will break the fever," he said of the two pills loitering on the corner of the wooden tray. He gave her a glass of water to swallow them down.

"Thanks," she mouthed, sinking the spoon into the soup. She sipped at the tasty brew, letting it soothe her throat. "It's good."

"It's a mix," he offered curtly, watching her with a frown on his face. Her hand shook slightly when she returned the spoon to the bowl. She didn't understand why he retrieved the tray from her lap and reset it on the nightstand. "You should lie back," he said hurriedly, easing her back into a reclined position. He kept her head tipped upwards by an extra pillow.

"But…"

"There," he said at last, taking the bowl into his hands. He brought the half-full tablespoon to her lips, ignoring her bewildered gaze as she drank the soup. He fed her most of it patiently, with a dark scowl permanently scrawled across his brow, and she was relieved that she didn't have to carry out the tiring task herself. Her fever had broken. She could feel her skin getting misty with a fine sheen of sweat.

When he was done, he took the tray to the kitchen and came back with a blanket that he spread over the one already covering her.

"You should sleep," he advised quietly.

She felt drowsy, and his dark face looked strangely angelic in the noon sun. A paradoxical angel with cold eyes and thick dark hair. The thought almost made her smile. "Derek." Her voice seemed faraway and softly intimate. "Why did you…"

"You should sleep," he repeated, tucking the comforters snugly around her narrow shoulders.

"Derek…"

"Shhh…" His index finger touched her lips so lightly that had she not seen him, she wouldn't have felt it.

She closed her eyes submissively, giving into the seduction of slumber, drifting into the gaudy realm of dreams.

* * *

Thanks for reading! 


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I still don't own Grey's Anatomy.

Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews on the last chapter! I really really enjoyed pouring over each and every one of them, reading what you guys think of this admittedly strange setup… so seriously, thanks! You guys really are the best! And finally a chapter that isn't weeks late in coming… and a chapter that's a little more than a filler. Some answers are tossed out, and some… well, read on! And please enjoy!

**Chapter 8  
**"There's a hole in my soul.  
You can see it in my face.  
It's a real big place.  
Come on hold my hand;  
I wanna contact the living.  
Not sure I understand,  
This road I've been given."  
Feel – Robbie Williams

* * *

"_Derek, it was one time. I know this is what people say. I know this is what always gets said. It's just I don't even know how it happened. I don't know what I was thinking. He was just... He was just here. He was just here."_

It stopped hurting a long time ago. The pain turned into something dull that throbbed mechanically, a constant anger, a flash of betrayal like the stain of blood in clear water. He didn't forget. He _couldn't_ forget. There was something lowly and entirely too cruel about the shattered shards of abused love. Even in death, he didn't forgive her because at some point when Christmas trees meant the world to him he supposed he'd loved her. He remembered stolen kisses under the mistletoe, burnt dinners in the wake of an impulse to make love, family gatherings with boisterous siblings, loitering on tall buildings with brownbag foods that were never explored. The snippets of his once colorful life no longer unleashed a flood of remorse all-encompassing in its ability to numb him. It meant nothing to him as he sat on the porch steps of the cabin, staring at the far horizon where the turbid gray sky bled into the green of life.

The mystifying blend resembled Meredith Grey's eyes. Her eyes however were infinitely more alive, younger, fresher, but with a knowledge far too wise and old for her twenty-five years. He wondered what it was that darkened the light of crazy itches from her soft features, but he didn't let the haunting thought chase his mind for long. He'd made sure that every shred of humanity in him was immobilized the day they'd put him behind bars.

"… _sentenced to twenty to thirty-five years in federal prison…"_

Something inside him had snapped. Over a year later, he still didn't know what it was. He didn't recognize that part of himself anymore. The warmth in him had died the day his mother's eyes failed to mask the shine of accusation.

"_Derek, you have to tell me the truth!"_

Sophia Shepherd was a woman with more strength than loveliness. She'd stared at him with eyes as dark and cold as the winter sky, the haughty tilt of her aging chin burning him with a fire that managed to tweak a tender spot. She'd killed something else in him that day, something he feared he'd never replace. The fact that he didn't care much for the loss disturbed him because while he had doubts about ever loving Addison, he'd loved his mother more than anyone else in the world. Respect and admiration for the woman who'd single-handedly reared him and his four sisters had enhanced his love, but she'd broken him as surely as Mark and Addison had. Just as he'd done to them, Derek had walked away, ignoring his youngest sister's soft cries as he slammed another door shut.

He'd vowed never to look back, never again to feel his throat tighten with emotion when he imagined the look in Sophia's eyes and wished for a split-second that cancer had taken her instead of Jonathan Shepherd. And he never did look back. One year and two months into his sentence, he'd stopped reading all the well-meaning letters. Without a trace of regret, he would scribble _return to sender _on the back of every envelope, so Nancy's wise words, examined with practiced detachment, no longer played in his mind.

He stomped one of his boot-clad feet on the ground, freeing a caked piece of mud just as the front door squeaked on its hinges slowly. He didn't turn to look at her, but he knew she hesitated before taking three small steps in his direction. He heard her low exhaled breath as she lowered her compact body onto the rung above him. Her feet were small and slender, stuffed into two pairs of socks that were comically large and with colors that clashed dramatically. She didn't complain.

Frowning slightly, he caught the green-tinted bottle of beer by the neck, and chugged a mouthful of the acrid gist before returning it to its spot by his knee. The silence didn't bother him. He rather liked the peace of it and could almost believe he was alone if it weren't for the buzz of awareness that jumped inside him every time she breathed. It had been three days since her attempted escape. They didn't talk about it. He didn't talk to her, not because he was angry, but because he could see questions in her eyes that he would rather leave unanswered.

"It's going to rain," she observed, her quiet voice sailing over him, splintering the make-believe solitude.

He felt the beginnings of a mocking smile and shrugged a little. A cluster of murky ominous clouds was hovering beneath the first hints of a dull crescent. "I didn't know you had the ability to forecast."

She took no offense at the obvious ridiculing jab, and he felt miffed with uncertainty. "Me neither. The rain seems familiar," she confessed, reaching for his beer. The gesture was so comfortable and trusting that it stunned him for a moment, but he pretended not to notice her hiss of consternation when the sharp liquid chafed her raw throat.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, flicking a nonchalant glance over her huddled form. It was a chilly afternoon, and he could tell she wasn't completely recovered from her illness.

"_Doctor Shepherd, where were you the morning of the crime? Where were you on Sunday September seventh at nine A.M.?"_

_He stared ahead stonily, scanning the semi-familiar crowd of curious onlookers, some thriving on a secret pleasure, others crestfallen with disbelief. Moving his impenetrable gaze to the hired attorney, he drawled the anticipated answer with frightening indifference, "At the Brownstone." _

_The tall skinny man let out a rehearsed chuckle and made a sweeping gesture with one upturned palm, effectively concealing his astonished features. "Perfect. The scene of the crime is set." _

"I'm feeling a lot better," she murmured absently, the feminine timbre of her voice chasing away the ghosts of his past as the tip of her index finger danced shyly around the mouth of the bottle.

He turned to her, as if to satisfy a craving, and found the wind tossing her clean, brushed golden hair. He wished he could still her hand with his own, grasp a fistful of her silky hair and taste her mouth, pliant beneath his own, giving, savoring. She was the picture of innocence with a wealth of age, young and old, wild and tame, brave and scared. And beautiful in a way that would have knocked the breath out of him if he'd felt alive. As it was, he only felt the stirrings of lust and youth. At thirty-four, he felt older than vintage bottles of wine served in five-star restaurants.

Her bottom lip was caught by punishing white teeth, a nervous habit he'd picked up on several occasions. She gnawed it under his gaze until he looked away, snatching the longneck from beneath her hand and drowning his thoughts with a long swig. "Actually, the stitches are starting to itch a little, but my throat doesn't hurt nearly as much. I think the fever's gone, too," she rambled before catching herself and falling silent again.

"You'll get used to the itching. There's still a good week before they come off," he said matter-of-factly to which she had nothing to add. The sky was turning from gray to a foreboding black, leaving them with little light and an abyss of safety. The lamps of the porch lights had long since burnt out, but he hadn't bothered with them. He could still watch her, but things weren't nearly as vivid or as clear.

A familiar whimpering bark drew his attention to the hustling dog that flew right into his knees in a clumsy flurry of white-gold fur. Meredith's gasp of surprise was followed by a short breath of laughter that sounded good to him. Reluctantly, he rubbed the downy spot between pointy ears as the dog eagerly sniffed Derek's shoes and jeans. The panting excitement preceded a small bark of joy. "You're a stupid dog, you know that?" he grumbled before the collarless mutt charged towards Meredith, snuffling suspiciously at her socked feet.

She didn't seem threatened by the terrier. He seemed to have decided that she wasn't a threat either, and she welcomed the affectionate trusting nuzzle of the wet protruding nose against the side of her thigh. "I didn't know you have a dog," she told him with a pleased smile on her glowing face.

"I don't." He frowned at her while she scratched behind the dog's ears. "He's not my dog," he clarified crossly, but the cross-bred terrier chose that particular instant to abandon her and fetch the brimming double-partitioned bowl of food and water Derek kept for him.

Her smile was for him, full of wry amusement, unshackled by any reservations. It was a glorious smile that he didn't allow himself to bask in. "He seems to think so," she pointed out, nodding towards the mutt in question as he advanced towards Derek, settled beside him and propped his chin on his thigh.

Derek shook his leg with a scowl and shooed him away under whining protests. The dog lingered hesitantly at his feet, looking up at him with pitifully big brown eyes.

"What's his name?" She didn't attempt to lure him towards her, even though Derek was sure the terrier would have gladly leapt at the chance.

"I don't know. I told you, he's not my dog," he insisted, not swayed as the domestic dog slowly trudged away from the cabin. When he looked back at her, she was staring fixedly after the furry retreating form. "He's just a lost dog, Meredith," he said with characteristic edginess.

"Is Meredith my real name?"

He stretched his long legs along the pressed soil, unfolding his knees under the faded denim. Her jeans were almost the same shade as his, and she was probably wearing the underwear he'd bought her with as little personal input as he could manage. He'd chosen something handy, something he wouldn't fantasize about, but he'd chosen it in black, and she was small, so the piece of flimsy material was a slight thing that made him hot thinking about it now. "Do you think it is?" he asked cautiously.

Her huff was one of impatience, but she controlled the sudden burst of temper with a calm collected voice that sounded only a bit flustered. "Maybe. I don't know," she evaded vaguely. "Is it?"

"Yes, Meredith is your real name," Derek conceded, and he didn't offer anything more. He'd already regretted having to divulge that one detail, but he couldn't have stopped himself. She'd stood in the middle of the bare bedroom, gray eyes suppressing frustration and a tinge of anger, a protective defensiveness to her fragile posture. And he'd called her Meredith because having read her name in that morning's paper, he couldn't imagine her being called anything else.

"Do you think I'll remember?" she asked in a small voice.

He tugged a hand through his unruly dark curls and gave her question a moment's thought, even though he knew the answer by heart. "You'll remember. From what I could tell, there was no permanent internal damage, nothing that won't heal itself with time. The truth is that you're repressing these memories," he explained, not quite able to fathom what it was that her mind was trying to forget so forcefully. "But they'll come eventually. There's no escaping the past," he finished on an ironic note that furrowed her smooth brow into a deep frown.

"And when they do come… it'll be like… I'll just remember everything at once?" Evidently, the thought distressed her.

"That or it'll come back in bits and pieces. You might forget everything that happened while you had amnesia, but that's not very common."

She looked bewildered at the suggestion and shrank a little into herself. "So I'll forget all of this," she said incredulously, her expressive eyes glittering with disbelief. "I'll forget you."

"If you're lucky," he retorted with a sardonic grin, ignoring the soft affected tone of her voice.

"Derek." His whispered name was a hum carried to him by the whipping wind.

He snapped his head around to meet her wide-eyed gaze.

"Thank you for saving me," she murmured earnestly.

Her eyes were brimming with gratitude and another emotion he couldn't quite place, but none of the accusation from that day was there. A forgotten place inside of him stirred to life, but he crushed it forcefully. There was no room for any of it in the life he led. There was no room for her. Looking away, he focused on the first row of trees where the dog had disappeared from sight, and started counting them randomly to avoid acknowledging her.

"I…" she trailed off for a hesitant moment. "You didn't have to. I mean you could have left me there. I was trying to escape," she recapped the incident with breathless nervousness.

It was endearing, but he convinced himself he was immune to it, to her. "Which you really shouldn't try again," he interjected rudely, pinning her with a cold glance. He thought he saw her flinch, but he wasn't sure why. Coming to his feet abruptly, the bottle of beer hooked safely between his index and middle fingers, he climbed the two porch steps and headed for the open door. He didn't pause before bursting into the cabin, heading straight for the kitchen where he disposed of the empty glass bottle. Derek reached for the freezer, opened it and took out a pack of frozen chicken breasts. He didn't think of anything as he slid the plastic container onto the kitchen counter, listening intently for the sound of her footfalls. Her socked feet made no sound on the cabin's floor, but she closed the door quietly. He turned the tap to the kitchen sink, placing his hands beneath the icy rushing water. He scrubbed them clean with a blue bar of soap, ignoring the angry red blotches of numbness. Choosing a butcher's knife from the rack, he took it to the white meat, slicing it into thinner pieces quickly and efficiently like one who was accustomed to the act of customizing meat slabs.

He looked up sharply when he felt her presence behind him. Holding the knife pointing sideways at the level of his abdomen, he turned to face her, a challenging glint to his blue eyes. She didn't step back or even glance at the gleaming stainless steel, choosing instead to stare hard into his eyes, deciphering something he didn't think he knew.

"After what you heard, aren't you afraid of a murderer with a knife?" he asked derisively, raising his eyebrows in sarcastic amusement, but he was far from amused. He felt raw and exposed in a way that made him want to remember the man they'd thrown into an isolated cell for giving the warden a piece of his mind. He wanted to see the quivering terror he'd grown used to, but she only raised her chin higher, her slender fingers clasping his over the knife, blue-gray eyes giving nothing away.

"You don't scare me, Derek."

* * *

Thanks for reading:) 


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the idea for this story and any original characters.

Author's Note: I'm starting with a very very big apology for the delay in posting this chapter. I'm really sorry for those of you who've been waiting. My muse has been absent for a while, and it was kind of tough writing this at first… but things worked out! I'd like to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your wonderful reviews. They really make my day!

I noticed many of you were confused about some of the events, so I thought I'd clear a few things up. Sophia Shepherd is Derek's mother. She's still alive. His father, Jonathan Shepherd, died of cancer (the time was unspecified). Derek was accused of Addison's murder. Derek did catch Addison cheating on him with Mark. If there's anything else, please don't hesitate to ask!

Happy Valentine's day! Please enjoy!

**Chapter 9  
**"Hope dangles on a string,  
Like slow spinning redemption,  
Winding in and winding out.  
The shine of it has caught my eye."  
Vindication – Dashboard Confessional

* * *

The silence was breathless. Her heart had sprouted the delicate wings of a butterfly that fluttered anxiously against her chest, pounding, pausing, and then pounding again. It was an incessant tune that hummed capriciously as she continued to stare deep into his steely blue eyes, clutching desperately at the bravado that had swelled within her only moments ago. She could feel it slipping away as surely as she could feel his hand loosening beneath hers. She resisted the urge to snatch her burning fingers away from his and hold her hand protectively to her chest in a last dying effort of denial. Derek relieved her of that temptation by very quietly yielding possession of the knife to her trembling hand. She was filled not with relief but tenderness, a strange surge that swept through her unpredictably and softened her disposition.

Lowering her eyes to keep from divulging her emotions, she turned slightly to place the knife on the kitchen table. It rattled in protest, and she stilled it with four fingers. When she looked back at his handsome face, he was studiously frowning at her, his jaw held sternly in an unrelenting line that emphasized the forbidding black stubble.

"What?" He sounded curt and annoyed, disbelieving. His arms rose and crossed before his chest defensively, resembling a jarring physical barrier.

Not discouraged by his dourness, she stood her ground and met his dangerous stare evenly. "You don't scare me," she repeated in the same confidently assertive tone she'd used on him earlier, but he didn't look impressed. "You're not going to hurt me," she added in a softer voice.

For a long endless moment, his gaze narrowed on her, as if deciding if she was being honest, and she felt like all the secrets she couldn't remember were being drawn out of her soul. Meredith swallowed tightly, unconsciously anticipating the verdict of his perusal.

"I didn't kill her." His impersonal voice imparted with the four well-spaced articulate words mechanically.

She was under the impression that he'd said the statement often and was weary of having to repeat it. Concealing her surprise, she exhausted her doubts in a rushed, frantic desire to believe in him. It was crazy to believe a fugitive who had perhaps unwillingly taken her hostage. "You didn't kill her," she finally murmured, her affirmation hanging awkwardly between them, and she was filled with something colorless and divine. His dark formidable stance relaxed noticeably, and she imagined it must have felt wonderful to be on Derek Shepherd's good side, privy to his quirks and his sense of ironic humor and the approval of smoldering cobalt eyes. The divinity that pulsed within her was akin to hope because she saw a flicker of it on his reluctant, guarded face.

Uncrossing his arms, he took a step in her direction, bringing them toe-to-toe in a confrontation that was quickly spiraling out of control and turning into something intimate. She was uneasy of how physically aware she was of his presence. Her lungs greedily expanded with his masculine scent, and she moistened her lips nervously before looking at him, dismayed to find that she had to tilt her head upwards. He was close enough that her chin almost brushed against the untainted cotton of his t-shirt. "No, I didn't," he ascertained calmly.

He was surrounding her, wrapping around her without even trying to touch her. She dropped her head and stared at her mismatched socks in faux absorption. Derek didn't allow the cowardly retreat for long. He placed the middle-knuckle of his index finger beneath her chin and slowly tipped her face towards him. Hesitantly, she encountered his gaze and found the subtle hints of amusement lighting his eyes. Sometime amidst sharing half-truths and reluctant confessions, the tables had turned, and she was at a glaring disadvantage. He knew it just as well as she did, and she knew he was going to kiss her even before his dark head began its slow descent, endowing her with the perfect opportunity to turn away. But she couldn't move an inch when his knuckle pressed urgently to her chin. The taste of his need was raw on her tongue, spreading like a wildfire in her abdomen.

His lips passed across hers slowly at first, testing her response to the gentle caress. It was a searing touch, primal with its honesty, and she closed her eyes to blind herself against the wrongness of it. The darkness behind her eyelids was a sanctuary that allowed her the freedom of tentatively placing her hands on his broad chest, parting her lips acquiescingly at the ardent probing of his tongue. Her fingertips shyly drifted across the stretched white cotton. She heard a distant gruff sound from his throat and forgot about it as soon as he began his bold exploration of her mouth. His tongue stroked and teased and thrust, engaging her in a long deep kiss that left her leaning into him, her breath stolen, her cheeks flushed with color.

When she reopened her eyes, she saw her fingers clinging desperately to the firm muscles in his shoulders, and his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, impartial to the sexual haze. His breath was warm against her temple, falling curiously over her bowed head. He didn't reach for her as he'd done in the attic. He didn't pull her into his arms to give her the thrill of discovering anew how beautifully different their bodies were, hers soft where his was hard.

With frightening composure, he stepped back, and her hands fell to her sides, mirroring his. She heard him draw in an extensive restorative breath and didn't dare break the fragile silence that roared with frustration. The whisper of his name hovered on her lips, an unfulfilled cry, which she bit back forcefully, willing herself to regard him with an expression as bland as his. Derek Shepherd didn't threaten her physically, but he posed another threat, one that awakened an instinctive feeling to shield herself from him, from the potency of his intense stare, from the colorful sensations that rioted through her at his touch.

Turning away from her, he took another knife from the rack and went back to preparing the chicken for another hearty home-cooked meal as if the last thirty minutes hadn't taken place at all. He dismissed her with the same callous effectiveness with which he accomplished everything else. She cast a departing look at his bent dark head, admiring the luxurious ebony tresses that curled beautifully at his nape before fleeing the kitchen, wondering what disturbed her more, the effect his dizzying kisses had on her or the fact that he seemed unruffled by them.

----

He found her in her bedroom, curled into a relaxed fetal position, a snowy white pillow tucked beneath her head. Her golden hair was spread across the pillow like an undisguised flag of seduction, soft and fair. He imagined it gliding through his fingers or spilling over her naked shoulders as he pressed his lips to forbidden places. He imagined the feel of her flawlessly smooth skin beneath his fingertips, against every part of him, breathing into the flame of his passion. Frowning in self-directed anger, he propped his shoulder against the doorjamb, resigning himself to watching her for a while longer. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn't sleeping. Derek had heard her shift when he first stepped into the doorway, and despite her self-deceptive attempt at slumber, there was something entirely restless about her perch. He wondered if a few hours with Meredith Grey beneath starched cotton sheets would ease the tense bearing of her slim shoulders. He wondered if one time would be enough to snap him out of his obsessive daze with the petite blonde.

He felt unfairly old craving someone like Meredith Grey who was young and vibrant and full of secrets. He'd felt deceptive when she'd kissed him back and arched into him, her body flowering to life in his arms before her eyes registered cold reason. And he felt rotten knowing that he wasn't going to back off.

Clearing his throat, he rapped his knuckles briefly against the wooden door. She bolted into a sitting position almost guiltily, blue-gray eyes wide with suspicious awareness as they landed on him questioningly.

Derek's blank expression didn't falter. "Do you want to eat?" he asked bluntly. The offer was devoid of courtesies.

Her puzzled features drew her full lips into a down-turned curve of disgruntlement. Without sparing another glance in his direction, she planted her feet on the ground with a faint thud and stood up. "Yes," she said defiantly, readjusting the black wool sweater as she swept her hair over one shoulder.

He wished she hadn't done that, but he only nodded sharply. "We'll eat in the living room," he told her, straightening to his full height.

He stalked to the kitchen where he'd left a pot of soup brewing. Expertly adding a trifle of salt to the boiling broth, he turned one of the dials on the modern electric stove, killing the glowing fire. The soup was poured into a pale blue bowl, which in turn was added to the prepared tray of food he'd left on the counter. He carried the heavy tray to the living room where he carefully set it on the table. His second trip to the kitchen was inspired by an impulse to dull his frenzied senses. He returned with a bottle of white wine in a bucket of ice and two glasses. She was sitting on the far edge of the worn sofa, having already set the empty plates he'd brought from the kitchen. Placing the genuine crystal goblets on the table, he sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a ridiculously gaping distance between them.

If she noticed, she didn't comment on it.

"The soup is for you," he said when she ignored the steaming bowl. "It's good for your throat."

She drew it towards her wordlessly, and drank half of it. They ate in silence for ten minutes, but the marinated chicken seemed tasteless, the potatoes baked in a film of butter poor. He didn't have an appetite for food.

Laying his fork against the plate, he reached for the bottle of spirits, which she eyed with unveiled curiosity. It popped open in his hand, and he filled both their glasses, nudging hers towards her. She made no move to reach for it, so he quirked a dark eyebrow at her. "Drink it," he advised, taking a sip of the chilled golden wine, savoring the forgotten taste of luxury.

She considered him dubiously, but her slender fingers elegantly wrapped around the stem of her glass. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" she queried with an anxious frown. He would have thought she was teasing him if it weren't for the serious glint in her eyes.

He gave her a chilling toothless smile and scooped the last of the fluffy potatoes with his fork. "Why would I do that?"

Uncomfortable, she fidgeted in her forced confinement, making Derek wish she would look straight at him for longer than two seconds. "To make me forget," she began thoughtfully, raising her glass to down a mouthful of the sparkling wine for encouragement. "About what you said."

Chewing leisurely, he let her statement dwindle pointlessly to the patterned tune of the rainfall. It had been raining for an hour, just as she'd predicted. "I'm doing nothing of the sort," he said finally, a casual note to his trivializing statement.

She didn't heed his unspoken warning. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Lifting his head abruptly, he fixed an unwavering glare on her. "About what?" he asked pointedly.

She surprised him by braving his glare and leaning back into the soft cushions to glower at him. "You didn't kill her," she reminded him patiently. "I believe you."

"_Damn it, I wouldn't touch a hair on her head," he bellowed, pacing the length of Zachary Preston's New York office mercilessly, oblivious to the breathtaking view from the wide twenty-second floor window. _

_His high school best friend slouched into his black leather chair with a grim frown across his brow. "I believe you, Derek," he said emphatically, shoving an impatient hand into his light brown hair. _

"_That makes you the only one," Derek answered bitterly, pausing mid-stride to shove his hands deep into the pockets of his charcoal suit-pants. Even though Zack was a reasonably influential man whose association to Derek in the untimely crisis was likely to cause him some critical appraisal, he wouldn't have it otherwise. _

"_Don't say that, Derek. Your mother…"_

"_She's not my mother," he interrupted harshly._

_Zack was visibly stunned as he murmured an expletive under his breath and sat up tensely. "What are the papers about?" he asked, gathering the folder Derek had placed on his desk earlier._

_He stopped pacing and fell into the uncomfortable chair, designed to keep visitors on the edge of their seats. "Legal forms that give you full reign over my assets and investments. If you'll do it, I want you to handle everything until I get out," he explained calmly._

_The folder dropped back to the swamped desk. "We're not doing this. They're not going to win," he said stubbornly, his green eyes steadfast with their belief in justice._

_Derek shrugged and came to his feet. "They've already won." _

"_There's still a chance the jury will believe you're telling the truth," Zack argued._

_A sardonic grin tilted his lips. "My own lawyer doesn't believe me." _

"It's in the past," he said with firm finality. "It's over."

"It must have been terrible," she murmured, her voice soft with sympathy as it brought back the worst of years wasted. Handcuffs slapped around his wrists. Boxed possessions. Visiting hours.

The familiar rage rose like bile in the back of his throat, unforgotten, simmering beneath a thick surface. "I don't need your pity," he snapped, angrily finishing the wine in his glass.

"Not pity," she said softly. "Not pity, compassion."

He stilled her with a long hard look. "I don't need that either."

Her nod was slight and disappointed. "Okay," she muttered in agreement. "I'll clear the dishes."

* * *

Some of you may recognize Zachary Preston from my other story, _Where The Heart Is_. His role here is entirely different, and nothing that applied there will apply to this fic. Well not nothing, but just think of him as another character. I just liked his character and wanted him to appear again.

Thank you so much for continuing to read this story!


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Even though it's been a while… I still don't own them.

Author's Note: Okay, so it really has been a very very long time (of which I'm not proud). The thing is, I was faced with a major "block" of sorts and I just couldn't write myself past it. Couple that with exams and assignments and the like… over one month of not updating. It's really been that long. Wow. Anyway, I really am sorry for this extended delay, and I do hope it doesn't happen again. Thank you so much for sticking with this story and for those of you who sent me messages during this long break. I appreciated each and every one of them, and they really helped me through. So thanks a lot! I hope you enjoy this, even though it's not personally my favorite…

**Chapter 10**

"We might live like never before.

When there's nothing to give,

Well, how can we ask for more.

We might make love in some sacred place.

The look on your face is delicate."

Delicate – Damien Rice

"_No, no, no! Derek, we can survive this. We can survive this. We're Addison and Derek."_

Staring blankly at the comforting chip-free paint of the ceiling, he could almost see her in a faded black t-shirt that fell to the middle of her thighs, her fiery red hair hanging in loose wet tendrils about a stricken guilty face. He could hear her sniffles, feel the overwhelming sense of loss in six tuneless words. _We're not Derek and Addison anymore._ He often thought that they never were the solid representation of the golden circles around their ring fingers. They had drifted, like floating survivors in a shipwreck clinging to the same piece of lumber. It hadn't been really important that they were both saved, just that they existed. At one point, he had suffered claustrophobia. The brownstone his golden cage, he'd felt trapped among its beautifully inlaid walls. Addison had known, but she'd been just as self-involved as he was, more selfish, more self-absorbed, unwilling to enter the confines of his creation. From lumpy dorm room mattresses and tasteless Chinese food on desks cluttered with medical books, they had stumbled into their supernova.

He closed his eyes tiredly, spreading his feet apart as he rearranged his arms under his head, wondering what had shaken him out of his dreamless sleep. The dark oblivion of slumber didn't come easy after endless nights colored by solitude. His skin shriveled at the memory, but he ached for the mindless oblivion. Like an incessant chant, her words bounced in his mind.

_I believe you._

_Not pity, compassion._

The familiar patter of rainfall was absent, replaced by the chirping of rudely loud birds cheerfully mocking his bitterness.

It was the unmistakable creak of worn wooden floorboards that snapped his head off the warm pillow. He glanced at the nightstand sharply, scowling to find his keys missing – again. Derek murmured a string of obscenities as he swung his long legs over the side of the bed. The inside of his grubby black boots felt damp to his bare feet, but he was mindless of the discomfort. Pulling on his discarded sweater, he swiftly strode out of the bedroom. His keys were hanging on the inside of the cabin's ajar door, a simple unadorned chain that jingled furiously as he shoved the door open, preparing to sprint into the forest.

He came to an abrupt stop in the doorway, arrested by the sight of her.

Meredith Grey was an unpredictable woman, and Derek was certain he'd never met one.

Seated serenely on the porch steps, she was engrossed in the tales of the book perched open on her lap, looking as cool and warm as the fresh morning, unperturbed by his violent intrusion. Her golden hair cascaded neatly about her slim shoulders, falling against the soft knit white sweater. She was astonishingly small and fragile-looking, but there was a quiet strength about her that baffled him.

"You're reading," he said aloud, raising his eyebrows when she finally turned to acknowledge his presence. Her eyes held the flawless blue reflection of a cloudless sky. The sun worshipped her, bestowing lingering kisses on her flushed cheeks, dancing freely in her hair, latching onto the luscious curve of her lips. He envied the cosmos for liberties he didn't own.

She appraised him wearily and closed the book without looking away. "I was reading," she confirmed, the loose volume caught tightly in her tiny fist.

Lowering his gaze, he studied the familiar paperback with a frown. She was reading his favorite book, and she wasn't escaping. "I see," he murmured thoughtfully.

"No, you don't." There was nothing unkind or accusatory about her voice. "You can relax, Derek. I'm not interested in running away, not right now," she informed him calmly.

He kept his stare unwaveringly even on her, weighing her admission and the determined shine to her enigmatic eyes. With her hair tumbling over her shoulders and caressing her cheeks, she was the picture of innocence, but her eyes betrayed something forgotten that was sharp and cold and had nothing to do with the sun-kissed woman on the porch steps. She had a past that forbade any allusions to tousled exquisite women with carefree smiles and silver laughter. She knew it as well as he did, and he suspected that part of her was adamant in keeping the forgotten just where it was – forgotten. It was easier when his problems were her own, when she had nothing that she knew of to worry about. "I would've followed you," he said tunelessly, and it sounded like a solemn vow.

The irregular tilt of her full pink lips alluded to a grudging smile that didn't make it past that. "I would've counted on it," she replied without candor.

Even though he knew it wasn't wise, he looked into her daring eyes and knew that he would do just about anything to mold her into the flesh of his fantasy. And he was certain she was at least vaguely aware of the power she wielded over him when she appealed to him with every feminine instinct she possessed, asking for any news articles about her that he'd saved. Derek smiled wryly and shook his dark head.

"You know I'm not about to do that," he chided her, but he wished he could rub his face in the silky hair that swung over one shoulder, baring a tantalizing glimpse of a milky white nape. He wondered what she would taste like there, if she smelled like soap or shampoo or something entirely different and feminine.

"Because you don't want me to remember," she said almost sadly, but there was more conviction in her voice than meekness and her blue-gray eyes glittered fiercely.

He released a long-suffering sigh. "I didn't say that, Meredith. I do…"

"Don't," she interrupted, giving him a sour look. "Don't lie to me, Derek."

Returning her pointed stare long and hard, he let out a balanced breath and crossed his arms defensively over his chest. "Because I don't want you to remember," he confirmed, watching her knuckles turn white in a tightened grip over the leather-bound volume. Their gazes held in silence for a moment longer before he briskly looked past her at the towering row of trees that plunged into the sky. He'd always wanted a place like this one, fresh, clean, isolated… unlike Manhattan and its harassed people and restless bustle. Time here seemed to stand still in reverent admiration, and he wished not for the first time that things had been different.

"I would've been sad, too." Her soft voice drifted into his vision.

Smiling sardonically, he regarded her closely. She was honest to a fault, but he searched for a crack in her veneer. He found none. After all, she and Zachary Preston were the only two people who believed in him. Zack had years of friendship on which to found his decision. Meredith Grey had abduction and imprisonment. The mother who'd reared him had planted a dagger in his spine. "How would you know that?" he asked, striving to keep from his voice the resentment Sofia's memory stirred.

She pulled her feet up to the first rung of the stairs and set them there with a shrug. Her back pressed against the dusty railing, she stretched her legs along the step, looking up at him with an exasperated frown. "I just know. You're sad, aren't you?"

Derek shook his head firmly and stared at the red plastic bowl he left for the dog. It looked cheap and dirty in the sunshine. "It's not sadness," he began uncertainly, groping for the right words. He wasn't sure why he was sharing that with Meredith Grey whose life was a mystery to her. "It's definitely not sadness. I feel rage and betrayal, and it's like a fire that burns me everywhere, all the time, something that will never go away." Raising his eyes to her huddled form, he found her staring at him raptly. It looked like she would touch him if he were within reach, smooth a delicate hand over his scruffy jaw as though erasing the ugliness of injustice. He ached to be closer, to feel the texture of her fingertips replacing the chill of void in his chest. He ached for her.

"Was it horrible?" She seemed almost afraid to ask, her glance shivering in dread of his answer.

He wouldn't sugarcoat the torment of it for anyone. "Worse," he intoned frostily as if the experience wasn't his own.

Her beautiful heart-shaped face paled. "You'll make it right," she asserted confidently, the unrealistic fancy dimming the effects of his admission.

With a deep scowl, Derek took a step backwards, into the doorframe. "No, I won't," he said in a tone harsher than he'd intended for it to be. Her stunned gaze didn't deter him. "I'm heading in."

He left her on the porch steps and stormed into the cabin.

----

She was sitting on the edge of the protesting table, and he was standing between her knees. She tried to stop watching him, but it was impossible. His tanned brow was wrinkled in absorption, his unshaven jaw rough and the vertical scar that traced a whisper down his brow emphasized. He was real and warm, and she was dangerously drawn to him in a way that made her blush hotly even though she knew he wasn't looking at her. His sharp blue eyes meticulously tracked his silent progress along her wounded head. Meredith wished he would say something, but he didn't. She couldn't think of anything to say to him when he was this close, the color of his eyes as clear and cloudy as the rest of him, the breadth of his shoulders tangible under a dark ribbed sweater. Despite his façade of commendable detachment, there was nothing professional about the way his denim clad thigh brushed the inside of hers. There was nothing professional about the way her stomach felt weightless and her knees felt like dust.

The snap of the scissors as it cut through the last stitch startled her. The refrigerator juggled a whistle and a drone. She wasn't sure which she preferred as a backdrop to the cadence of the rain.

Derek's stirring breath dropped to her cheek as he lowered his head to locate the ball of cotton. He didn't meet her gaze, and his touch was impersonal as he swabbed her forehead with the piece of cotton. She watched the ball of cotton he'd been using arc into the trashcan.

"Derek," she murmured, lifting her hands to his face before he could step away. She laid her palms against his cheeks, cradling his warm jaw in her healed hands. He went completely still, his indigo eyes unblinking as she searched them, the horizontal line of his lips unmoving. A tiny muscle jerked in his clenched jaw, and she itched to trace it and make it mean something. "Derek," she whispered again. Emboldened by the gentle softening in his impenetrable gaze, she smoothed the pad of her thumb over the graceful arc of his brow, holding her breath when his hands sat on each of her thighs. His fingers were immobile but strong and reassuring. "They broke you," she said softly, bringing his face closer until she could feel his raspy breath on her nose. She touched her lips to his, grazing them lightly as she breathed against him. "Kiss me, Derek," she begged in a hushed whisper.

He barely moved before his lips softly caught hers. He tasted like wine and peril. The heady combination made her dizzy as his fingers came to life. They strummed her thighs lightly, like feather strokes, teasing, evoking. She felt him deepen the kiss, lazily, moaning as his tongue slipped into her mouth to caress hers while his hands moved up her thighs to her buttocks. He pressed her closer, so that his arousal felt hard against her. She gasped in shock or panic. She wasn't entirely sure because he kissed her again, and she lost every other thought to the riot of sensations shuddering through her. He touched her everywhere at once, his hands grazing her breasts with a laden promise. He pulled away to place soft wet kisses on her neck, slowly, like they were in a luxurious hotel room instead of the cabin's third-rate kitchen.

Her fingers found their way into his hair, sinking with a drifty sigh into the rich dark strands. She held him close, his name falling from her lips on a short breath.

Wrapping his arms around her, he pressed his lips to her ear, his breathing an abrupt choppy pattern that echoed her own. "No," he said quietly. "If you're going to stop me, do it now."

Meredith pulled away to look at him and found his eyes dark with desire, his lips swollen from their kisses. There was no quenching the fire that went ablaze in the pit of her stomach. Running her hands over his heaving chest, she leaned towards him and kissed his mouth.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I don't think I will ever own them.

Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your mind-blowing response. I was so happy to return to such positive responses! It's really been inspiring, so thanks a lot. I appreciated every one of your wonderful reviews. This chapter was easier in coming, and it takes things a step forward. "Things" are a lot different this chapter. The mood is different. I'm not sure you will like the difference, but I hope you do. Anyway, read on, and please enjoy!

**Chapter 11  
**"Today's the day.  
I pray that we make it through,  
Make it through the fall,  
Make it through it all."  
Fall To Pieces – Avril Lavigne

* * *

There was a portrait in his bedroom, just above the long couch. It was an oil painting of a fair-haired man's profile, beautifully captured in its very essence against a bleak grayish background. The expressive face was bright, the detailed contour of a bare muscular shoulder intimate. He looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place the arresting green eyes, couldn't shake the feeling that she'd seen them before. It was such an odd personal touch that she perversely thought it misplaced.

She thought about it for a while, relishing the undisturbed solitude and the soft glow of dawn that leaked stealthily through the shutters. She thought about it until Derek's strong arm draped around her waist, his palm flattening beneath her breasts, pulling her into the cocooning heat of his body. His chest was a hard warm plane against her back, his chin rough and scratchy to her shoulder. He didn't say anything as he held her close, his broad shoulders bracketing hers, but Meredith knew he wasn't sleeping. His thumb idly stroked her stomach, and the dull reawakened ache of desire licked her skin where he touched it. That desperate sense of urgency had kept them awake most of the night in a frenzy of kisses and caresses, making love with a mixture of passion and tenderness. They pretended to sleep in between, but she knew he hadn't gotten anymore sleep than she had.

Now, she felt him rub his scruffy jaw against her hair as he breathed her in. Craning her elbow, she laid her hand on his cheek and caressed it absently, pushing away the fears and reservations that came with the daylight, savoring the feel of his thoughtless kisses on her shoulders.

"I don't think I was much of a cook," she said quietly, turning onto her back to look up at him. He was more handsome in the sunlight, less forbidding. His eyes were hooded but bright, and his dark hair was meshed into odd angles.

He didn't smile even though his expression was amused. "What makes you think that?" he asked suspiciously.

"When I'm hungry, I feel helpless," she confessed.

He cocked an arrogant eyebrow, and it seemed to tug at her heart with an invisible string. "You're hungry?"

"Yes. Aren't you?"

Moving with unhurried deliberation, he braced his arms on either side of her, trapping her beneath him. "Very," he whispered, his eyes smoldering dangerously into her own.

Reaching for his hovering face, she slipped one hand into his hair and brushed an errant curl away from his forehead with the other. His lips teasingly tugged hers apart before he lavished her lower lip with his tongue. Breathless, she moaned, and he kissed her almost violently. "Derek," she murmured, pressing her cheek to the pillow. "I want to talk."

She felt his nonchalant shrug. "Talk," he said dismissively, lowering his head to the crevice between her neck and her shoulder. As his left hand inquisitively explored her side, he nibbled at the soft flesh.

Meredith shifted and stilled his wandering hand with her own. "I can't talk like this," she protested, fidgeting in his embrace.

With a heavy sigh, he drew back and propped his elbow on the pillow they shared, bracing his head on his fist. "Talk," he said more somberly.

She smiled faintly and leaned up to press a short kiss to his lips. "Thanks." Her gratitude was shrugged off, but she didn't let that hurt her. "I should feel bad about what happened," she began softly.

The wry smile that curled his lips didn't touch his eyes. "That's not very flattering."

She frowned at him. "I don't. I don't feel bad," she admitted with a sense of wonder. "Does that mean I'm not already committed to someone?"

He furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "Not necessarily. Maybe you don't feel so committed to your someone, or you're not in love with him," he suggested. His tone was impartial.

Looking past him at the ceiling, she studied the strange patterns of light scattered across the creamy paint. "Maybe," she murmured, still unsettled.

She could feel his eyes on her. "Yes."

Squeezing her eyes shut, she entertained the most horrid scenarios. "If I'm married…" The notion turned her stomach.

"If you are, he doesn't have to know. We did what we had to do," he reasoned.

She favored him with a questioning stare. "We didn't have to."

Lifting a lock of her hair from the warm pillow, he twirled it around his index finger. It was golden and pale, fragile against his tanned hand. "I did," he said honestly.

A strange pang twisted in her chest at the rawness of his unadorned tone. "Why?" she breathed.

With his head still propped on his fist and his hand in her hair, he brushed his lips to the corner of her mouth then to the tip of her nose. "Because you were driving me crazy," he said in a low-pitched voice.

"Because you haven't done that in a long time," she muttered and hated the accusatory sting to her voice.

"You mean sex?"

She nodded.

Placing his free hand on her cheek, he gently rubbed his thumb against the curve of her cheekbone. "Maybe, but that had very little to do with why I wanted you in my bed."

"Then why did you?" she asked, and she wondered if she sounded as breathless as she felt.

"When I found you and brought you here, I couldn't stop looking at you. Maybe I was happy that you were still alive, that I found you in time. Maybe it was something else. You were small," he recalled, "and bruised all over. The night you woke up, I couldn't stop looking at you either because you were beautiful and lost. And your hair," he said huskily, running his fingers through it with the lightest of touches. "It smelled nice. You were unattainable, untouchable, and you believed in me even after everything I'd done."

She felt the sting of tears in her eyes but smiled them away as she slid her hand across his shoulder. "I disagree," she whispered.

"What?" he asked, a puzzled frown scrawled across his face.

"I was very touchable." Her eyes glinted with remembrance, and he chuckled and swooped down to stroke her smiling lips with his own. When he pulled away, she gazed into his indigo eyes. "Was your wife the last woman you slept with?" The question slipped before she could hold back the impulse.

Derek laughed, as if the thought amused him deeply. "No," he asserted, shaking his head with the remnants of his laughter flickering at the corners of his lips. "No, she's not."

She looked away to hide whatever emotions his words evoked. "I see."

His scowl was evident in the corners of her eyes. "I wasn't cheating on her," he stated defensively.

"Then how?"

Though his clenched jaw relaxed, he settled on his side of the bed, no longer hovering above her as he raked a hand through his disarray of dark curls. "Does it really matter?"

She resented herself because it did. "Yes."

He gave her a sideways glance. "It shouldn't," he said bluntly.

"Why?"

He looked troubled and dark before he met her inquisitive gaze again. "This is staying here," he told her softly. "In this place, in this time and it won't always be like this. We won't always be here."

"I know." And it scared her more than anything else.

They were silent for minutes after that, the somber mood sitting heavily on her heart. She wasn't sure how long it was before she felt his lips questing across her brow and his hand covering her breast, slowly caressing it. "Do you still want to eat?" he asked, his teeth nipping gently at her ear.

Her breath quickened, and every brush of his nimble fingertips coiled a knot of tension in her womb. "Yes," she sighed, leaning into him.

He straddled both her thighs with one leg and drew himself over her. His kiss pressed her deep into the soft mattress, his weight shackling her wonderfully. He was heavy but deliciously so. "Now or later?" he mumbled against her lips.

"Later," she whispered breathlessly.

----

Wrapped in one of Derek's beige towels, she stepped out of the shower feeling fresh and rejuvenated. She'd found a box of disposable pink razors in one of the drawers. Only two were missing from the neat plastic sleeves. It made her wonder about who had been to this cabin before her or before Derek.

She'd taken her liberties with it and vowed to replace it before leaving.

Wiping the dense condensation from the wide mirror, she gave her reflection a quick perusal and slicked her wet hair away from her face. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes shady, and she thought she looked like someone who'd spent the better part of the day making love in Derek's king-size bed. They'd eaten a quick lunch of noodles and a thin poorly made Soya-based sauce which she'd prepared. He hadn't complained, and even though he'd eaten it, she knew he hadn't liked it.

She opened the bathroom door and walked back into the familiar room, once again dark with the nightfall. The bed was still unmade, but everything else was in place. Several remote controls were lined tidily on the glass table, and the bedroom door was only slightly ajar. She could hear Derek shuffling in the kitchen. Her eyes latched onto a calendar hung beside the widescreen television. She padded towards it on bare feet, her fingers skimming the marked dates. The professional snapshot was of the Eiffel Tower, lit up in a dark Parisian night over the bustle of a restless city. _February_ was scrawled in a strange orange font below it. There was a diagonal line on every day past. The last slashed date was February nineteen.

The door was pushed open from the outside, and Derek strode into the room, carrying two glasses of chilled golden wine. "Hey," he called her. "What's wrong?"

Offering a quick shrug and a brittle smile, she shook her head. He was wearing nothing but a pair of unbuttoned jeans, and his hair was still damp from his shower. She took the crystal glass from his hand and sipped it automatically. "Nothing," she muttered finally, looking back at the calendar. "What's today?" she asked and touched the empty squares with her fingers.

"February twenty-first," he answered, reaching past her for a pen loitering at the base of the television set. He used it to put a line through February twenty.

"Tomorrow's the twenty-second," she murmured, more to herself than to him, but he lifted curious eyebrows anyway.

"Yeah," he agreed. "What about it?"

She shook her head more firmly this time and placed her hand on the center of his chest where a light dusting of dark hair roughened his skin. Lifting herself on her tiptoes, she kissed the uneasy line from his lips. He was still frowning when she stepped past him.

"Where are you going?"

"To find something to wear," she said with a travesty of a teasing smile on her lips.

He came around her to face her, and his fingers toyed suggestively with the knot of her towel. "What for?"

She took a step out of his reach and raised one eyebrow. "I'm going to get dressed," she said before rushing out of the bedroom.

----

When she came back ten minutes later, he was stretched out on the couch beneath the misplaced painting, watching a news report as he sipped the last of the wine in his glass. She was wearing an oversized gray sweater and black panties, and she'd blow-dried her hair. Still barely touched, her glass of wine was in her right hand. He acknowledged her with the barest curving of his lips and set his goblet on the table. Setting her glass next to his, she climbed onto the couch beside him.

He wrapped his arm around her and kissed her forehead. "You okay?" he asked quietly, using the remote control to switch the TV off. The sudden silence made room for the sound of the rain, which pounded loud and clear outside.

She pushed her face against his chest and let out a deep breath. "I don't know," she answered, her index finger drawing invisible circles over his heart.

"You don't seem like much of a drinker," he pointed out, nodding towards her glass of wine.

"I think I was a drinker who couldn't hold her alcohol," she mused, closing her eyes tiredly.

He ran his hand down her back soothingly. "That's why you avoid it? You don't want to do anything crazy?" he queried.

"Could I have done anything crazier than this?" she asked seriously.

"No," he said dryly. "I don't think so."

It occurred to her that she hadn't thought of him as a criminal ever since he'd told her he hadn't killed his wife. He'd become Derek again, the strange, brooding man, whose rare smiles did something funny to her heart. Despite what little she knew of the story, she did believe him, and she ached for every moment of torment he'd been through. "Neither do I," she echoed. "Will you ever tell me the story?" she wondered sleepily. With her eyes closed, she didn't see him turn on the television again, but she heard the quiet drone and tuned it out in favor of his steady breath mingling with the strong beat of his heart.

He didn't ask her what story she was talking about; he already knew. "Yes, soon," he promised. "Go to sleep," he told her softly.

She fell asleep minutes later.

----

Meredith Grey woke up, knowing her name and her birthday.

The room was dark, the rise and fall of Derek's chest beneath her a constant reminder of where she was. Her memory was a stark reality in her mind, and she didn't feel dizzy or disoriented. She remembered everything about her past and her present.

She recalled her childhood in Boston, her estranged father and distant mother. She remembered that her mother had died almost a month ago.

And she remembered that today, February twenty-second, was her daughter's second birthday.

* * *

Thanks for reading:) 


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I have no claim over the characters or Grey's Anatomy or ABC.

Author's Note: I'd like to start by thanking you all for your wonderful responses to the last chapter. I really enjoyed pouring over every review, so thanks for that! This took a while to post even thought I've had it written for days because I was having problems with uploading. I finally figured out a way around them, so here it is! This chapter explains some and leaves some unsaid like most. But it does explain what some of you would like to know, I think. I hope this doesn't disappoint in regards to last chapter's cliffhanger! Read on and please enjoy!

**Chapter 12  
**"Spend all your time waiting for that second chance,  
For a break that would make it okay.  
There's always some reason to feel not good enough,  
And it's hard at the end of the day.  
I need some distraction. Oh, beautiful release.  
Memory seeps through my veins.  
Let me be empty and weightless, and maybe  
I'll find some peace tonight"  
Angel – Sarah McLachlan

* * *

She'd always expected a rush, a flood of images flashing through her eyes like pictures in the sand. She'd been prepared for that, an uncomfortable experience of finding the scattered pieces of her life and completing the puzzle.

She wasn't ready for the pain.

It came slowly like a weak nozzle that washed her from head to toe, and she ached with it. The memories were sharp and relentless, and where the hurt must have dulled, it became sharp again, like it was yesterday that she walked into the buttercup yellow nursery and touched her fingertips lovingly to the soft golden hair. She could almost feel the feathery locks against her hands, could almost imagine the ghastly color of the once creamy skin. Instead of her daughter's warmth, she'd felt stillness, cold, hard, concrete. The cheerful room had been dreadfully silent as if mourning the sweet whimpers of protest, and the realization had been just as chilling. She remembered screaming before frantically reaching into the crib, but the house had been as empty as always. And her hysteria had fallen on deaf ears until she'd carried the tiny lifeless body into the living room. Her hands had shaken badly, but she remembered calling for help, blubbering her address. What she'd said was still fuzzy, but she imagined she hadn't even remembered that before her amnesia. She'd sobbed over the fragrant pink cotton of the baby outfit, pressing frantic hands to the small chest in the automatic motions of CPR, begging her to breathe. Every year of medical training had felt worthless in those hundreds of seconds. When the ambulance had arrived and several paramedics had filtered into the house, she'd collapsed.

She'd forgotten to pray because sometime amidst long arguments with her mother, demonstrations of tequila shots and one-night stands, she'd lost her faith.

Her baby, her beautiful Carol, never opened her eyes again.

Now she cried softly into the crevice between her drawn knees, her toes pressed to the cool bathroom tiles, her heart wrenching painfully at the lost promise. Caroline Grey had only been seven months old that fateful September night. She'd missed her everyday since.

_"A mother never gets over losing a child," Ellis Grey murmured, cradling her hand protectively between both hers. "I'm sorry, Meredith. I'm sorry," she said earnestly before pulling her rigid body into a maternal hug she barely recognized. _

At the small funeral, her father had sobbed and her mother had cried prettily into a white clinical handkerchief. She'd been too numb to do either, even as she watched them clasp each other's hands for the first time in years. It hadn't meant a thing to her. It hadn't meant a thing to them either, just a habit of sharing the misery of her existence. She couldn't stop thinking about how inappropriately small the casket was, how full of life her baby had been, how much she hated wearing black. She remembered strange embraces and awkward kisses, and then she remembered disappearing for days that turned into a month and then two until her mother tore into her house and found her.

_"Meredith," she said forcefully, pulling her to her feet by the arm. "This has got to stop. I won't lose my daughter because you lost yours," she asserted with determination and pride and shoved her into a warm running shower._

Ellis Grey had given a new meaning to tough love, and in a bizarre way, Meredith had loved her for it.

Because she was her mother's daughter, she'd pulled it together and started learning how to live again, without Carol's first words and first steps and favorite foods. She'd thrown herself into medical books and journals and articles, seeking therapy where she'd been betrayed, and she'd excelled. But little had made her mother proud because in her own way, she had mourned Carol's death, too, and it had made her harsher to the world, mellower with her only daughter. Meredith hadn't enjoyed the overdue tenderness, not for the brief time that it was there, because she'd resented thinking that her experiences had taught her mother to cherish what she had.

A little over a year later, the phone call came from Seattle, in the soft-spoken words of Richard Webber.

_"Your mother… she–"_ _he cleared his throat, as if it tightened with emotion, "she passed away," he finished gently._

Just like that, her world had crashed again.

The gentle rapping against the closed door drew her head up. With the trailing sleeves of the gray sweater, she wiped furiously at her eyes and nose, erasing the stains of her tears. She knew her eyes were probably blotchy and her nose was red.

"Meredith?" His voice was laced with worry, but he didn't try to open the door.

She came to her feet shakily and reached for the shiny silver faucet. The water was freezing, and it felt good against her burning face as she splashed it. "Yeah?" she managed. She could hear him hovering at the door.

He was silent for a moment. "Are you okay?" he finally asked.

"Yeah," she lied, her palm twisting the tap to stop the water. She used his towel to dry her face. It smelled like him, clean, masculine and soapy, and she held it to her face as she approached the door. The polished wood of the whitish door made a firm impression against her forehead, but she pressed it hard and fancied him doing the same to lend her his strength.

"Okay," he conceded.

It was almost a full minute before she heard his footsteps.

----

The early morning was foggy and damp, last night's rain a recent memory on the faded gravel. She was greeted by a light breeze as she stepped into the cabin's open doorway. It filled her lungs, and she felt a semblance of being alive again, nourished. The beautiful landscape seemed to roll on into infinity, and it was undamaged, untarnished even under a cluster of angry clouds. Tearing her eyes away from the muddled sky, she sought him out.

He was at the bottom of the porch stairs, bent over the dog's displaced red bowl, heaping leftovers into it as the terrier wagged his tail happily. He was barely three feet away, but it suddenly felt like a thousand miles. Her throat clogging with an emotion she couldn't place her finger on, she watched him carry the empty nylon bag and stuff it into the trashcan. The dog looked up long enough to bark at her, alerting Derek to her presence, before he attacked the offered meal.

He studied her with his familiar piercing eyes for what felt like a long time. She stared back, her breath suspended somewhere in her chest, afraid that he could see through her this easily, but she knew it was ridiculous. He couldn't have possibly known.

"Still claiming he's not yours?" she asked lightly, nodding towards the furry dog.

His worn white t-shirt stretched across his chest as he ran a distracted hand through his hair. He looked casual in his faded blue jeans, almost like a normal man on vacation, but Derek Shepherd was too attractive to just be a normal man. His hair was too dark and thick, his eyes too magnetic. "I'm not sure you'll buy it," he answered, favoring her with a slight smile, which she barely returned. "You look tired," he remarked as she started towards him.

His concern warmed her more than it should have, and she was tired of being cautious. She had very little to lose, and he could take away the memories. "That's rude," she said softly, stopping at the top of the porch steps. From where she stood, she could see his endearingly unlaced sneakers. They made her smile a little.

He took her hand in his and guided her down the flight of stairs. When she was standing before him, he spread his hand along her cheek, his long fingers delicately brushing her hair back. "You know that's not what I meant," he chided her, his voice quiet, his gaze fervently searching her face.

She flattened her palms against his hard chest and turned her face into his hand, feathering her lips to the warmth of his palm. "I know," she murmured and kept her eyes fixed on his chest to avoid his knowing looks.

He used his thumb to tip her chin upwards. "You barely slept yesterday," he reminded her with a frown.

"Maybe I'm an insomniac," she suggested with a noncommittal shrug. She wasn't an insomniac.

Derek didn't look convinced but he dropped it. He didn't seem to be in the mood to argue for which she was thankful. His hand slid over her cheek down to her neck, and he followed its path with his eyes. He hesitantly touched his forefinger to a purplish spot on the side of her neck. Rubbing it slightly, he lifted his eyes back to hers, and they were apologetic. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

If they weren't both so heavy, she would've laughed and said, _it's just a hickey_, but she couldn't because he looked remorseful and she didn't think anything could make her laugh. "Don't be," she whispered and smiled at him.

"I'm sorry if I was rough," he murmured, and she ached for him because his sharp eyes harbored a stabbing sense of self-disgust.

Spurred by a surge of emotion, she drew him closer and parted her lips over his in a tender kiss. "You weren't," she reassured him. She liked the way he held her as if their embrace was a shield against the darkness inside him.

"Good," he said, "I'm glad." He disengaged himself from her arms and stepped past her, bracing one foot on the bottom stair as he lowered himself to the second step. He sat with his knees spread apart. "Come here," he huskily invited.

He made such an alluring picture with a stubborn lock of hair dipping low over his forehead and the uneven tilt of his lips that she couldn't even think to resist the offer. She let him steer her into sitting on the rung below his, between his knees. It surprised her when his strong hands started kneading her shoulders, massaging away little knobs of tension. It felt wonderful, delightful even. She sighed contentedly and was glad to not think of anything but Derek's big hands and his stomach behind her head. For a while, the skillful ministrations of his fingers drugged her, but her thoughts ran rampant, taunting her with questions she'd meant to ask him. And it couldn't wait. "Where are we exactly?" she asked, striving for a casual tone. He stilled for a moment so brief she wasn't sure if she imagined it or not.

"Outskirts of Boston," he said dismissively.

"Around where?" she prodded on, noticing for the first time that his jeans were threadbare at the knees. Her fingernails picked on the tough strings distractedly. She _knew_ they weren't in Boston. They were somewhere in Seattle. That was where she'd had the accident. What she didn't know was why he was lying to her about it.

With his fingertips, he whisked her hair over one shoulder and bowed over her to kiss the skin he exposed. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood at the touch of his lips. "Dochester," he lied easily, his warm breath sailing along her neck.

It scared her that the lies seemed almost habitual. "Did you live here before?"

He placed an openmouthed kiss beside the collar of her v-necked sweater as his thumbs rolled across her nape, and she could no longer focus on what he was saying. "No, just visited a couple of times," he muttered.

The dog barked. She was startled by the sudden sound, but Derek was amused. "He won't stop coming," he said of the exuberant terrier as he scrambled to Derek's side, propping both front paws on his denim-clad thigh.

She found herself smiling in spite of herself. "He may not be yours, but you're definitely his," she teased, tilting her face to grin at him.

Derek shrugged sheepishly and ruffled the dog's head. His other hand stayed on her shoulder. "Wise words," he jabbed back. She could tell he was relieved by the change in topic and didn't have the heart to reopen their conversation.

"We should find a name for him," she decided, smoothing her hand over the warm paw on Derek's leg. "Max?" she suggested, her nose scrunching at her own proposition.

"Too common," he contested.

She racked her brain for possibilities because she did care about the dog's name. Giving him a name would make things more real when all of this turned into just another memory that she would want to hold on to. "Spot?" she tried again.

This time, Derek's scowl of disapproval was evident. "He doesn't have spots," he said incredulously.

Clinging to her patience, she searched for a 'suitable' name for the energetic dog. "Lucky!" she exclaimed, pleased with herself.

It made him laugh, albeit sarcastically. "If you call this lucky…"

Huffing in annoyance, she rolled her eyes at him. "Okay, Derek, you name the dog," she challenged.

His shoulders rose and fell negligently under the soft cotton of his t-shirt. "I'm fine with the nameless dog that doesn't belong to me."

Meredith turned around and gave him a long look. "We're calling him Doc," she asserted finally.

His unrelenting stare softened on hers, and his fingers reached for her face, just barely grazing her cheek in an enchanting whisper. "Okay," he agreed.

She nodded but hardly moved an inch for fear that his hand would slide away. "Good," she managed to say.

He held her head still as he bent down to claim her lips with his, kissing her suggestively. "You want to go inside?" he whispered.

"Yes."

----

She was lying in the crook of Derek's arm, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her arm slung around him so that her hand was palm-down on the left-side of his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady against her fingertips. It reverberated through her, meshing with the rhythm of her own heart. Their music wasn't attuned. The mixture of both sounds was almost like a continuous beat. For every gap in his heartbeat, her heartbeat filled in. It was strange, and not at all what she would have liked to romanticize. She wasn't sure if she would've preferred the cliché of hearts beating in synchrony, like the two were one and together for life. She and Derek weren't one and weren't likely to see one another again however this twist of fate ended.

"Derek?" she mocked a whisper, hoping to wake him if he was asleep and pretend that she hadn't meant to.

He was awake. "Hmm?"

She heard the hum echoing peacefully in his chest. "Will you tell me how it happened? How you ended up here and what happened the day your wife was…" she trailed off, her mouth feeling dry as sand at the memory of his deceased spouse.

"Murdered," he filled in for her. He was chillingly calm about the prospect.

"Yes," she said softly. "Tell me," she pleaded.

"I'll tell you, but you have to promise that we'll never talk about it again. I'll say it once, and that's it," he said with finality.

Meredith hesitated, weighing her options, frowning when she found none. "Okay."

* * *

Thanks for reading:) 


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I don't own them. They all belong to the wonderful people over at ABC and Shonda and her friends.

Author's Note: Even though I hoped it wouldn't… this took a while again not because I didn't know what to write. It's been crazy here with exams and the like, very messy I tell you. But it's almost over! So thank you all time and again for your wonderful wonderful reviews concerning this story. I'm really sorry I've kept you waiting! I hope you enjoy this because it gives some answers. Half of it is told in flashbacks (the _italics _are flashbacks). Hopefully, the next one won't be so long in coming! Enjoy!

**Chapter 13  
**"I'm so hollow, baby.  
I'm so hollow."  
Goodbye My Lover – James Blunt

* * *

She was coming to like the incessant humming of the refrigerator. It was comforting and familiar, a diversion from the rain that pounded relentlessly beyond the barred kitchen window. The sky was a confused, squeamish gray color with a kiss of rosy dawn, blanketed by the gloomy drizzles of the Seattle morning. It would've been beautiful had it not mirrored the dark expression stonily etched to Derek's rugged features. He'd been mostly silent after they'd left the bedroom in favor of the austere atmosphere the tight kitchen boasted. She preferred it as a cadence to the presumably hideous events he'd promised to tell her. The bedroom would've been too warm, too personal.

Even though it was warm inside, she fought a shiver and snuggled deeper into the oversized hooded sweater he had given her. Wrapping her hands firmly about the rapidly cooling ceramic of her mug, she watched him refill the gleaming silver carafe with fresh coffee.

"Coffee?" he offered before turning around and taking a brief step in her direction. The carafe in his hand hovered for a hesitant moment over the rim of the green mug.

Meredith lifted her chin a little and looked at him from where she was sitting sandwiched between the fridge and the battered wooden table. Her nod was barely discernible, but he saw it and poured the hot coffee into her mug. "Thanks," she murmured, raising the mug to her lips for a tentative sip. It was black, sugarless – blunt, just the way she liked it. The scalding liquid and its sobering smell filled her with an aching feeling of familiarity.

Carrying his own full mug, he rounded the table and took the only seat left facing her. She was staring into the swirling depths of her bitter coffee when his raspy voice broke the cacophonous rhythm of the predawn hour. "My wife's name was Addison Forbes-Montgomery Shepherd." When she looked up sharply, she found him absently studying the grooves in his ancient table. His fingers smoothed over the flawed wood as if the memories were carved in Braille code on the poorly polished surface. "We met in college, junior year."

"_Excuse me!" _

_A light hand fell on his shoulder, tapping it lightly. Derek stopped mid-stride and turned to find a stunning tall redhead eyeing him critically. _

"_You forgot this on your desk," she explained to his questioning gaze, thrusting out a thick green book. Waving it back and forth before his chest, she smiled with slight impatience into his blatant stare. _

"_Thanks." Flashing his most charming smile, he took the book with his left hand and placed his right hand in hers before she could pull it away. The move flustered her in a way that made her deep blue eyes shine with something besides annoyance. "Derek Shepherd," he introduced himself, his hand closing firmly about her slender fingers. _

_Her smile stretching into an appreciative grin, she gave into his lingering handshake. "Addison Montgomery."_

"She was a surgeon, too, neonatal – one of the best. We did everything together, went through med school, applied for internships, got married and eventually worked in the same hospital. But it was never just us; there was Mark Sloan." He paused to down some of his coffee as if the name brought an unbearable taste to his mouth. Reclaiming his detached façade, he replaced the mug on the table and leaned back into his chair. "Mark was my best friend, the brother I never had," he said, smiling with something akin to cynicism. Her chest clenched painfully at the sight of it, and she wished she could replace the derisive twist in his eyes with a light of warmth. "My family was his family, and we'd been practically inseparable since high school. He's a plastic surgeon because that's what he does best – women. For as far back as I can remember it was always Mark and the women in their bedrooms, his condo, cheap motels or fancy suites when he got richer. He was a player, and he lived it to its fullest. Addison and I were the only fixture in his life. Women passed at crazy rates, but the three of us were pretty tight." His lips tightened into a straight implacable line as the fingers of his right hand dug into his hair, pulling the errant locks away from his brow.

"On our eight-year anniversary, Addison and I had made reservations in New York Palace Hotel for four days. As luck would have it, the night of our anniversary, an emergency surgery came in and I couldn't get off duty for several hours."

_Tugging impatiently at the collar of his black polo shirt, Derek loosened the top button and readjusted his lab coat over the worn cotton. _

"_Hey man," Mark greeted him with a forced grin, landing an affectionate slap on his shoulder. "You guys heading out?" he asked and balanced several charts against his side. _

_Derek sighed as he checked his wristwatch for the fifth time in ten minutes. "Addison left a couple of hours ago. I'm stuck here. Bus accident, a lot of head trauma victims," he explained with a frustrated shake to his dark head. "You should go to the Brownstone. Keep her company until I get there," he suggested._

_Mark nodded, a shallow frown denting his smooth brow. "Yeah, alright. I'll see you there."_

His eyes were cloudy as he pointlessly surveyed the still kitchen, his fingers drumming a tuneless beat against the edge of the table. "The first hour, it was crazy at the hospital. The ER was a mess, and I knew I couldn't leave for at least another three or four hours. I already had two emergency surgeries scheduled. So, I called them."

_Derek propped his cell phone between his ear and shoulder, waiting for Mark to pick up. He leafed through a patient's chart quickly in adamant search of something amiss._

"_Hello?"_

_The chart momentarily forgotten, he thrust his index finger between the clinical pages to mark his progress. "Mark, it's me," he said hastily. _

"_Derek, hi," Mark replied, for Addison's benefit Derek believed. _

"_Listen, it's hectic here. I'm staying in for the night. I'll be back by eight in the morning. I'm going to crash in an on-call room for a couple of hours," he told him, listening as Mark passed the news to his wife. He didn't hear her reaction, but he imagined a frown at best. "Tell Addison we'll take off first thing in the morning." The promise in his voice sounded hollow to his own ears._

"_Yeah, Derek, she went to the bathroom. I'll tell her when she comes back," he reassured him. "I'm going to stay here a while longer before I head home, keep her company, maybe get her to watch a movie or something. She seems disappointed." There was a thread of sympathy in Mark's voice that Derek appreciated. _

"_That would be great. Thanks," he muttered earnestly, holding the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He pushed painfully to relieve his stress, but the ancient strategy didn't work. "I have to go… bye." He flipped his phone shut and slid it into the protruding pocket of his white coat. _

"_Doctor Shepherd?"_

_Looking up, he encountered Doctor Julian Baker's benign green gaze. Mount Sinai Hospital's other neurosurgeon was in his deep green scrubs, ready to remedy the massacre. "Doctor Baker, hello." _

_The graying man draped the stethoscope in his right hand around his neck. "Chief says you're off the hook in two hours. This looks like it's going to take a while and your vacation's already started. Plus I can take it from there," he finished with a grin. _

_Derek nodded tiredly and offered a grateful smile in answer. _

"I decided to surprise Addison. I was excited when I drove home. It had been so long since we'd devoted any time to our marriage, and things were… strained. We were both ambitious and busy, but at one point we were too in love to notice it. When I got home, it was around three past midnight. I walked in. There was Mark's jacket still on the coat hanger, and it didn't make sense because the house was dark. The living room, where they usually sat, was empty. I remember taking the stairs two at a time. What I know now is that when I walk into my bedroom I'll find my wife cheating on me with my best friend. I was so struck by the cruelness of it back then that it just makes me want to laugh now. I was duped, pure and simple. And it made me bitter as hell," he confessed, giving her a rueful self-deprecating smile. It made her ache with tenderness for him.

When he spoke next, his words were chopped and short, a series of immutable miserable facts. "She tried to fix it, blamed me for being absent which was partly true. It wasn't an excuse though. And I really just wanted out. I filed for divorce. She wouldn't sign it at first, but then I guess Mark got to her because a month later she signed the papers and she stopped trying. I didn't really care about her after that. Seeing them together used to burn me, but I looked past it. I looked the other way when they whispered in hallways or met up in the lobby for a night out. I turned into a workaholic. I drank and I slept with women whose names I didn't remember. I did a lot of things I'm not proud of."

His voice softened as he looked up and met her eyes. She wanted to reach across the table and give his warm hand a lingering squeeze of sympathy, but she knew the gesture would only nurture hostility because Derek Shepherd was a man who valued pride over sympathy. She was still trying to understand the myriad of emotions coursing through her when he started talking again, this time his voice hoarse with unshed anger and harbored frustration.

"It happened on Sunday, September ninth. Our divorce was supposed to be finalized on Tuesday, and I wanted to get the rest of my stuff from the house. I'd given her the Brownstone when we split our assets. I had the morning off, so I went to the Brownstone at around eight-thirty. I let myself in because I hadn't given her my keys yet. She was showering, so I managed to avoid running into her while I piled the rest of my clothes in a handbag and left. I could swear I took that key back with me to my mother's house. Next thing I know, I'm back in my mother's house and my key is missing. I didn't ask about it. I just thought maybe I'd misplaced it. I didn't think about it for the rest of the day. Monday morning, I was sitting in my office, going over some papers when Mark came in."

_The door to his extravagant office was pushed gently from the outside._

_He lifted his stare from the post-op notes perched on his desk to the familiar form of the man standing by the door. _

"_When did you last see her?"_

_Derek smiled humorlessly and leaned back into the high-backed leather chair. "Well, this is rich," he muttered, incredulous. _

"_I'm serious, Derek." _

"_Of course you are." He pinned the other man with a piercing glare that made him shift uncomfortably on the spot, but there was something resolute about the stubborn set of his broad shoulders. "Friday," he said quietly. _

"_You didn't see her over the weekend?" he prodded._

"_No. What's with the questions?"_

"_Weren't you at the Brownstone yesterday morning?" _

_Derek furrowed his brow. He was starting to get irritated if not angry. "It's interesting that you're spying on me." _

"_She's dead, Derek." _

"_What?" _

She felt as if the air was sucked out of the room as she stared at him in rapt astonishment. Her lungs collapsed, and her eyes were stung by a sheen of moisture that she viciously fought. He met her stunned gaze with cool blue eyes, his jaw set in rigid tightness.

"That's how you found out she was dead?" she whispered, but her words were more an appalled statement than a question.

"Yeah," he murmured pensively. "She was shot three times in the chest," he said, touching his fingers to the pale blue cotton of his shirt, over his heart as if he could still see the bleeding holes in Addison Montgomery's chest. "That led them to believe she knew her shooter and was trying to argue her way out of it. Since I was at the Brownstone and my key conveniently showed up again, they assumed that I shot her. They had no information about the gun. They just had the bullets. The gun had disappeared with the killer."

"You were framed."

"I was the only logical suspect," he informed her in the manner of someone describing the weather. "I had motive. I was there, and she knew me. I was also smart enough to dispose of the gun. To them, the pieces added up. There was a murder; they wanted a killer, and they found themselves one," he concluded, his tone dripping with disdain.

"I'm sorry," she told him sincerely, but he was already abandoning his chair and pacing to the window.

He stopped there, his broad back set stiffly as he stared broodingly at the greenery, her sympathy falling into a bottomless pit of silence. "I'm going for a walk," he announced.

On the verge of voicing a protest about the rain, she found that the morning was starting to clear. The sun peeked shyly from the heart of a cluster of clouds, showering a warmth of golden light across the landscape. Still standing by the window, Derek gave her a long look over his shoulder.

"Do you want to come?" he asked finally.

Meredith felt her lips curve in an involuntary smile, which she hid behind the dangling sleeve of his sweater. He quirked an eyebrow at her, and he looked impossibly alluring despite the weight of rage that clung to him. Pulling her hand back to her side, she met his gaze and promised herself to ask him about everything else later. "Yeah, I'd like that."

* * *

Thanks for reading!:) 


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Grey's Anatomy. If I did, it wouldn't have gone the way it did.

Author's Note: Okay, wow! It's really been a long long time. As in longer than usual. And I don't really have excuses since I've been on vacation for a while, doing all the useless relaxing things people usually do on vacation... And not writing... but yesterday I got around to fixing up this chapter, and I realized that I've missed this story a lot! I was just so uninspired by the direction the show had taken with the MerDer relationship and the possibility of Derek hooking up with Mer's sis (God forbid!), and so that led to that... and I haven't written in this fic for over a month now...

Anyway I'll stop rambling, and start by thanking each and every one of you for all the amazing reviews you've given me on this story and for continuing to ask about it when my reappearance was starting to look rather doubtful... Thank you so so much... I really appreciate it. And I do hope you enjoy this chapter. I also hope I'll be able to write the next one way sooner than I did this one... Thanks for sticking around and please enjooy!

**Chapter 14  
**"It's better this way, I said.  
Haven't seen this place before  
Where everything we say and do  
Hurts us all the more."  
Full Of Grace – Sarah McLachlan

* * *

"_Fuck you, Shepherd," Eva Lane hissed with an angry smile contorting her lovely face._

_Derek glanced at her as he quickly fastened the column of buttons on his black jeans. Giving the rumpled bed a pointed look, he met her brazen hazel eyes with dark blue ones and reached for the shirt strewn at the foot of the queen-sized bed. _

"_Yeah, I know. I already did that," she muttered crudely, slapping her hand over a box of cigarettes loitering at the edge of the nightstand. She shook one out and took the white stem between her manicured fingers as she fiddled with a lighter. An orange glow brought it to life and sent a curl of smoke dancing through the dimly lit bedroom. He smiled lopsidedly, a smile that didn't tell her if he'd particularly enjoyed that aspect of their evening only that he found her unladylike behavior amusing, but he didn't say anything as he rolled the cuffs of his white shirt up his forearms. "Well," she prodded, impatient with his reticence. "Don't you want to know why?" _

_His fingers raked through rumpled dark hair, trying to restore some semblance of order to the thick locks. "Why what?" he asked distractedly and shoved his bare feet into his expensive shoes. _

_Eva drew on the cigarette hungrily, her gaze narrowing on him. They'd spent most of the night in her bed, exploring each other at leisure, and now he was leaving as if they'd had a mildly pleasant time playing chess or cards. "You enjoy leading women on," she accused him. _

_That got his attention. He glared at her sharply, a dark ominous scowl creasing his brow. "No, I don't," he snapped curtly. _

_She knew she'd hit a nerve, and it gave her a heady sense of control to know that she could draw any kind of reaction from him. "You've come here five times now," she reminded him with a sallow smile. "And what do you want, Shepherd?"_

"_Nothing," he said with a shrug. He was leaning against the doorframe, his hair bed-rumpled, his shirt open at the collar, exposing a delicious view of his strong throat. It made it difficult to want to do anything other than please him. _

_Despite her reluctance, she leveled a deprecating stare on him. "That's not what you wanted last night." Her voice was silky. _

_His posture relaxed, but his lazy smile was forced. "So?"_

"_So what is this?" she asked and threaded exasperated fingers through her short brown hair._

"_Sex," he replied simply. _

_She knew he meant it, so she gave him her most dazzling smile and kissed her cigarette. "She did a real number on you," she remarked, watching him straighten and stretch. _

"_Who?"_

"_Addison."_

_His smile said otherwise. "I'll see you later," he promised, and just like that, he left._

Derek didn't smile at the memory. He watched Meredith Grey, alarmed that she was turning into something beautifully familiar. She slipped one slender hand into the pocket of the hooded sweater he'd lent her and sent her other hand reaching for the loose tendrils of golden hair that shamelessly flirted with her cheek. She brushed them away in a gesture so endearing it brought a tentative smile to his face. He liked the irritated frown that momentarily creased her smooth brow. He liked the way she perfumed the cold bitterness of the winter air with the smell of August.

There was too much about her that he liked, and the thought stole his reluctant smile and replaced it with a frown.

"I like it here," she remarked, holding a hand to her hair and glancing at him furtively. Her soft voice was a welcome intrusion on the silence.

He felt like they should've been holding hands, but he didn't reach for hers. And she kept her hands safely hidden in the pouch of his sweater. "Yeah," he agreed on a deep breath, still feeling raw and exposed. Earlier in the modest kitchen of a cabin in the middle of nowhere, he'd told her something he'd recounted time and time again in his head but never out loud. She'd become privy to the skeletons in his closet, and she bore the burden so well he was tempted to shoulder some of hers. "I like it here sometimes," he conceded.

The wind adamantly tossed her silky hair about her shoulders, and he felt an urge to bury his face in the fragrant golden mass. "How long have you been here?" she asked curiously, drawing him out of his daze. The beginnings of a glorious smile teased her lips as she spotted Doc hustling across the landscape towards them.

Annoyed by the sudden desire to pull her into his arms and kiss her, he shoved a hand through his hair. "Not long enough," he breathed, his gaze following her as she squatted down to greet the exuberant terrier with an affectionate pat to his head.

"Hey, Doc," she murmured. "What do you mean?" she queried, tilting her head sideways to look up at him. The sun caught her upturned profile and swam in her hair, making it look fiery and warm. She squinted under its bright glare.

Giving her a tired look, he stuffed a hand into the front pocket of his jeans and shook his head slightly. "Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?" he shot back, failing miserably at making the question sound light.

She knew he was only half-joking, and it didn't make her smile. Her heavy sigh was accompanied by a shallow disappointed frown that made him feel something entirely unsettling. She came to her feet as the dog brushed past her and barked excitedly at Derek.

Expertly ignoring the strange emotions she'd unknowingly evoked, he acknowledged Doc by ruffling the mat of light fur behind his ears.

She was staring at him when he finally found it in him to look at her. "He trusts you," she observed quietly.

Derek wasn't sure what to make of the look in her blue-gray eyes. They had softened enough for the sun to make them glow like crystals, but they were as weary as her protective posture. Hesitant to read more into her expression than he should, he regarded her clinically, wondering why she seemed different to him now. She didn't seem lost anymore – only sad and devastatingly beautiful. "Yes, he does," he answered after a long pause, his voice even and unaffected. He prided himself on not sounding as hoarse as he felt. "Do you?" he countered breezily.

She started towards him slowly, her gaze never leaving his as her feet carried her closer until she was standing right in front of him. "Do I what?" she asked in a small voice, her eyes dropping to his chest. Doc impatiently hovered beside them.

Giving her an intense look, he raised his right hand to her face and touched his index finger to her chin, gently tipping it up. When her eyes cautiously connected with his, he spoke to her softly. "Trust me. Do you?"

Her gaze didn't waver and Derek could have kissed her for that alone. Her pink lips curved in a small barely discernable smile. "Should I?" she challenged, and he grinned because she was teasing him.

Sliding his hand around her slender neck to her nape, he massaged it soothingly with his thumb and wrapped his free arm possessively around her narrow waist. He pulled her against him, pressing her body to his, his lips hovering at her temple. "I don't know," he murmured, his brow furrowing in faux concern as he brushed his lips to her cheek. "I don't have the most honorable intentions when it comes to you," he confessed, his hand cradling her head as he lowered his mouth to hers. He kissed her with restraint for a few seconds, but when her tongue slipped out of her mouth to trace his lips, he groaned and tightened his hold on her. His lips parted and melted against hers while her arms went around his broad shoulders, pulling him even closer. Breathless, he pulled away and rested his scruffy cheek against her smooth one.

"I trust you," she whispered earnestly.

Derek breathed her hair and stroked her back through the thick material of his sweater. "Me too," he said finally.

Lifting her head, she looked at him with an incredulous half-serious expression on her beautiful face. "You trust yourself?"

There wasn't a trace of a smile on his face when he kissed the palm she laid on his cheek. "No, I trust you."

----

The afternoon sun was winking at her from the openings between the drawn curtains in Derek's bedroom. Squinting at the offensive rays of golden light, she rolled onto her back and felt beside her for Derek. The sheets were cool. Her eyes snapped open with a startled wince, and she blinked the ceiling into focus before turning to glance at his empty pillow. She must have dozed off after they'd made love.

Meredith closed her eyes and sighed as she ran her fingers over the bedspread on his side of the bed. His pillow smelled like him, warm, fresh and distinctly masculine. She loved the smell and the way it made her feel almost as if he were there with his dazzling smiles and persuasive kisses. The musing brought a tiny smile to her lips even though it scared her that he'd managed to become such a crucial part of her life in such a short period of time. She knew it was inevitable physically because he was the only other person she saw, but emotionally she hadn't expected his nearly absolute reign on her feelings.

"You're up."

His voice came from the doorway, and it didn't startle her. Propping herself up on her elbows, she sat up slightly to look at him. He was leaning against the doorframe in nothing save for a pair of unbuttoned jeans, his shoulder firmly pressed to the polished wood, his bare chest warm and inviting, his hair boyishly tousled. There was a cigar tucked between his lips, its tip aglow, a light smoke curling from the orange light. The sight of him tickled her low in her belly, a fuzzy scratch that made her catch her breath at the small smile he gave her.

"And delightfully mussed," he teased, lifting a curious brow at the telling blush that bloomed on her cheeks.

"Where were you?" she wondered as he straightened and stepped into the room. She sat up against the headboard and raised the sheet to cover her breasts.

"Outside," he said dismissively, sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed nearest to her. "I couldn't sleep." He took the cigar from his mouth and twirled it lightly between his thumb and forefinger.

"It smells funny," she said of his cigar, crinkling her nose in derision.

He chuckled before sucking a breath of it and releasing a cloud of gray smoke in no particular direction. She made of show of waving it away with her hands. Her efforts resulted in allowing the soft cotton bed sheet to slide down her chest. His eyes snapped to it almost instantly, hungrily following its slow descent, his cigar forgotten. She resisted the urge to laugh at him and caught the sheet before it revealed anything, giving him a mock indignant look in the process.

"Not fair," he growled, placing his free hand on her cheek as he lowered his seeking lips to the crevice between her neck and shoulder. He pressed a fervent lingering kiss on her collarbone and raised his head to look at her. "Do you still want to taste it?" he asked.

She looked at the cigar dubiously before nodding. His immediate grin was suspicious but she ignored it when she took the brown cylinder from his fingers. Tucking it between her lips as she'd seen it done before, she drew on it for a long moment, her lungs expanding with the toxic nicotine. She grimaced as she exhaled the bitter smoke and handed it back to him, her eyes teary. "That," she began, gasping for a clear breath, "is the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted," she declared, still trying to clear her throat.

Derek actually laughed. "I told you it tastes like shit," he muttered and lowered his head to hers for a heart-stopping kiss. Her hands slipped into his dark hair, combing through the thick strands tenderly. "Mm, you taste like cigars," he whispered against her lips. His tongue teased the corners of her lips before thrusting into her mouth. He kissed her thoroughly, his lips moving across hers, his tongue tasting the deepest corners of her mouth until she was flushed and breathless. "I've never kissed a woman who tasted like cigars," he admitted on a ragged breath.

She smoothed an errant lock of hair off his forehead and studied his serious features quietly. "I'm starting to think I should be insulted. Cigars are positively revolting," she joked with a frown.

His amused laughter warmed her, and he brushed a kiss to her knuckles before restlessly coming to his feet and strolling towards the pale couch against the wall. Lowering himself to the worn pillows, he stretched his large frame, killed the cigar in an ashtray and reached for the remote control. "Come here," he said aloud without looking at her.

She slid towards her panties which were strewn and the foot of the bed and plucked them from where they were wedged. Pulling them on, she reached for one of Derek's discarded T-shirts and dragged it over her head. She left the warmth of the bed and padded across the floor on bare feet. When she reached the couch, Derek took her hand and pulled her on top of him. She gasped her surprise and gave him a displeased scowl as she readjusted her position, but it felt wonderful when he wrapped his arm around her and rested his rough cheek on the crown of her head.

They were silent for what seemed like a long time as he flipped through the channels and finally settled on a news report.

"I'll never get married again," he mused suddenly.

The statement almost knocked the breath out of her, but she hid it under the veneer of a fragile smile that she knew he couldn't see. "Why not?" she managed to whisper.

"It's nothing like I expected it to be. I didn't marry for money or social connections or pure convention," he explained. "I married Addison because I loved her." Hearing that made her feel a strange unexpected pang in her chest. "My love for her is as dead as she is," he finished in a detached tone.

She swallowed the ache in her throat forcefully. "That's an ugly thing to say," she murmured softly.

"What she did was ugly," he retorted coldly.

She knew that was the truth, but she didn't want to agree with him because it meant that he hadn't forgiven his wife even in death. And it gave the impression that he was a man with whom second chances weren't an option. Meredith stared at the television screen long and hard without really seeing it and was startled when he began to increase the volume. The man who was beginning his speech struck her with familiarity. She read his name at the bottom of the screen: _Zachary Preston_.

She glanced at the portrait above the couch before asking, "Who's that?"

"A friend."


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I don't own them. I'm just borrowing them for some fun and games.

Author's Note: I'm probably the worst updater in the world. I _am_ the worst updater in the world. I'm really really really sorry to have kept you waiting despite the fact that you've all been wonderfully supportive with this story. Your reviews make my day EVERY TIME, and I really mean it. So a big thanks from the horrible person who can only seem to update her fic once a month or even less frequently. I do promise to work on that!

Anyway, this chapter's a step into "phase two" of this story. You can probably all guess what _that_ is from the chapter. It's a bit longer than usual, and I hope you enjoy it... I really hope it was worth the wait!

Thank you for sticking with this story! Enjoy!

**Chapter 15  
**"If I built a wall  
A hundred feet tall  
Would that keep you in?"  
Stay – Michelle Featherstone

* * *

His voice was a ghost of a breath in the hollow silence. _A friend_. The single syllable stopped the world in their sheltered cocoon. His fingers stilled in the crook of her elbow over a tiny horizontal scar. Last night, he'd kissed the scarred skin curiously, and then he'd raised his face to peer into hers, his smoldering blue eyes full of questions to which he believed there were no answers. He'd looked away, his heart as shielded and cold as the unrelenting look in the eyes that refused to show a hint of disappointment. A small piece of her heart had shattered, wishing against all logical reason that she could just tell him, share the memory with him like he was just another normal man who could be the one. As it was, she couldn't. He was anything but normal, and the world had hardened her enough to make it hard to believe in "the one". Still, it became just a little bit harder to breathe in the tense moments of anticipation as she followed his fixed stare to the television screen.

Zachary Preston's charismatic voice filled the present so well that it dulled the past.

"_Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, members of the congregated press," _he began, and then without warning a brilliant smile swept over his handsome face. It was a flash of perfectly aligned white teeth set against a masculine chin and sharp green eyes designed to melt the resolves of those who wished to disagree with what the smile beseeched. She imagined women found the congressman unreasonably handsome. His eyes were so distinguished – vivid and shockingly green. _Familiar_, she thought. Casting her gaze on the vivid portrait above the couch again, she eased herself off Derek's tense body and soundlessly dropped onto the armchair by the couch. Just as quietly, her heart plummeted with dreadful realization.

_Two unfamiliar faces gazed back at her from the supposed treasure she had found. The immortalized image was beautiful, a happy moment captured on film forever. Against a background of endless snow, a man with remarkable green eyes had his arms wrapped securely around an equally stunning woman with flowing dark hair and topaz eyes that gazed lovingly at the towering form of the man who held her._

_There was a portrait in his bedroom, just above the long couch. It was an oil painting of a fair-haired man's profile, beautifully captured in its very essence against a bleak grayish background. The expressive face was bright, the detailed contour of a bare muscular shoulder intimate. He looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place the arresting green eyes, couldn't shake the feeling that she'd seen them before._

The man in the photograph and the man in the portrait merged into the man on television. Somehow Zachary Preston had factored into Derek's life. Worrying her bottom lip anxiously, she willed her heartbeat to slow down as she allowed Zachary Preston's voice to drown out the sound of blood pounding in her ears. She listened to his speech keenly, searching for undertones that she never found. As soon as it was over, a plethora of reporters were thrusting their microphones and recorders forward, screaming questions like a starving crowd in a small town's only bakery. Preston handled it well, answered whichever question seemed the loudest until the zealous reporters were brought under control and questions were being spewed off in turn.

She listened and resisted looking at Derek until the temptation became too great. She glanced at him, watched his brow furrow in what resembled a concerned frown, but the narrow line of his lips remained tightly compressed. Whatever this made him feel, she couldn't tell by looking at his hardened face. It was just as well, she decided and refocused on the voices of the colorful people on television.

For the most part, he was being asked about health issues, environmental awareness campaigns and other political jargon she didn't think much of until one particular young man with clipped blond hair and a pair of sturdy glasses raised his voice above the others.

"_Congressman Preston, what about the issue of criminals on the loose like – say – Derek Shepherd and Paul Stuart?"_

Her heart skipped too many beats for it to be healthy. She couldn't muster the energy to look at Derek and try to decipher the emptiness in his gaze.

Zachary Preston seemed accustomed to the scenario because he took it with a stride though his jaw tightened visibly and his laughing green eyes lost all traces of humor. _"I believe the police are doing their best to apprehend them,"_ he replied convincingly. He stared at the camera for an unusually long moment, his remarkable eyes unblinking.

Derek's harsh breath filled the room with something ominous and ugly. She felt the sudden need for slow deep breaths herself.

"_What's your personal opinion?"_ A woman with short black hair and clever brown eyes goaded.

"_Personally, I hope justice is served,"_ he countered diplomatically, flashing a million-dollar smile at the crowd before smoothly announcing that there would be no further questions. He thanked them for hosting him, and then a commercial cut in.

Derek switched the television off automatically and grabbed a beige throw pillow, shifting tensely to tuck it behind his head, sighing harshly as he pressed the back of his skull into the soft fabric. He closed his eyes tiredly like one who had aged a decade in just a couple of minutes.

Tenderness and sympathy made her chest clench painfully. "So, Paul Stuart, huh?" The choked words were out, but the voice didn't even sound like hers. She sounded hoarse as though she were holding tears.

One blue eye popped open and flicked over her appraisingly before shutting again. "Yeah," he sighed. "We… uh… we escaped together," he stated tonelessly.

The rise and fall of his chest was peaceful and comforting to watch. She was silent for a moment, mesmerized by the lulling rhythm of his steady breathing, and she made-believe he was asleep. But she knew that his sleep was rarely untroubled. "Is he innocent, too?" she asked, her voice almost as quiet as his breathing, but he heard her. She could tell from the travesty of a smile that softened his lips and jaw.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. For the first time, he really looked at _her, _a look that was devoid of passion and lust and emptiness, a look that made it seem as though he could see her darkest thoughts. And that look made her leave the comfort of the armchair to crouch beside the couch and reach for him. Her hand hovered tentatively above his face, frightened by the intensity of his gaze before she laid her hand along his cheek and her heart in his palm. Her fingertips flirted with his sideburns. "No, he's not innocent," he whispered, his eyes hooded as they raked her face. "He's a thief, not a violent one, just a poor man who had to do what he had to do at one point."

"Just like we did what we had to do?" she asked, her blue-gray eyes trained on her thumb as she gently rubbed it across his cheekbone.

His grave face split into a mischievous grin that rocked her. "Something like that," Derek murmured teasingly.

She smiled because she felt it somewhere inside her. "How'd you do it?" she wondered curiously.

He kissed her thumb lightly when it passed over his lips. "They were transporting us from one facility to another. Paul arranged for an extract. The truck was ambushed on a deserted highway, the guards were shot with tranquilizers that put them out for hours, and we ran like hell," he surmised.

"You ran all the way from New Jersey to Boston?" The tips of her fingers danced along the curve of his thick eyebrow, absently smoothing the short dark hairs against his skin. And the mellow light in her bright eyes told him she would believe it even if it were impossible.

"Trains, planes and automobiles," he said dismissively, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room, his eyes closed peacefully. He leaned into the touch of her hand like a man starved for tenderness, and she gave it without restraint.

Her hand felt warm against his rough cheek, and she caressed his wind-burned skin mindlessly, her gaze memorizing the handsome contours of his face, wondering if he would let her stay when his life wasn't tangled with chaos, if he would ever have a normal life again. She worried until her heart hung sickly in her chest and her stomach protested, but she only smiled at him when he opened his indigo eyes.

"How come they're not looking for you here?" she asked.

He planted a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. "This isn't my house."

It didn't surprise her, not as much as it should have. She had a pretty good idea whose house it was. "Zachary Preston's?" The name had been ringing in her head since the interview, and it felt good to confront him with it.

His nod was small and anticlimactic, the furrow of his brow displeased, but whatever he wanted to say was silenced by the fervent kiss she pressed to his lips. He kissed her back hungrily, his hands lifting to steady her head, his fingers curling in her golden hair. She sighed into his mouth, loving the softness of his lips as they shaped hers and the erotic dance his fingers performed down her spine. She shivered against him and whimpered when they broke apart.

He sat up and kept his arms wrapped around her, pulling her onto his lap. "I want to show you something," he announced suddenly. One of his arms was still securely hooked around her as he came to his feet, carrying her with him.

Meredith gasped. "Where?" she asked breathlessly, clutching at his broad shoulders.

Setting her down on her feet, he dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Outside. Wear something warm."

He patted her bottom affectionately as he walked past her. With a burst of embarrassed laughter, she slapped his retreating fingers. "Derek!" she scolded.

Derek chuckled, and the sound was rich and beautiful. "I'm waiting on the porch."

"With Doc?"

His broad shoulders rose in a shrug, and she hoped he cared more than he was willing to admit. "Probably."

----

"That didn't take long," he commented when she appeared on the porch clad in a pair of jeans, a black wool sweater and one of his jackets.

"I don't exactly have a queen's wardrobe, and there isn't anyone here to see it if I did," she retorted, smiling at him when he took the lapels of the jacket she was wearing and pulled her towards him.

He caressed her lips with his so lightly she wouldn't have felt it if he weren't so warm. "I'm here to see it," he said, his amusement evident in the way his indigo eyes danced.

She arched one of her eyebrows mockingly and touched her hand to his hair. "You don't care what I'm wearing," she answered matter-of-factly.

His hands slipped beneath the jacket, deft fingers brushing against the sides of her breasts through the material of her sweater. His eyes went smoky with desire as they connected with hers. "I do care about what you're not wearing," he groaned and buried his face in her neck, feathering deliberate kisses on the smooth expanse of skin.

"Derek," she breathed, bracing her hands on his chest and pushing him away. "You wanted to show me something?" she reminded him when he raised his head.

He nodded soberly and grabbed her hand, tucking it warmly against his side. "Come on. It's close," he promised.

They walked to the sounds of crunching leaves and forlorn birds for several minutes, crossing the plane between the cabin and the thick forest.

"I don't really like it here," she protested, her eyes warily studying their surroundings. It reminded her too much of the accident and the night she'd tried to escape. The towering trees were a thick tangle of branches and withered leaves of which Derek seemed to be mindless. He navigated the confusing maze like one with a map.

"It's not far," he said, his hand still solidly wrapped around hers. He glanced back at her, giving her a brief grin that wasn't entirely glad or amused. Worry clutched her heart with an iron fist because something about the look in his eyes told her she wasn't particularly going to like whatever he had in store for her.

"Derek…" she began as he tugged her around a couple of trees and into a clearing. It caught her eye almost immediately, leaving her utterly speechless. So misplaced was the ruined blue vehicle that it was an eyesore amidst the heavenly rise of Mother Nature around it. It was her jeep in all its damaged glory parked in a clearing in the middle of the forest. When her initial reaction subsided, she could feel his eyes on her, probing, slightly anxious even, though she wasn't sure he was capable of feeling something as human as anxiety. She swallowed tightly and reminded herself to play the role of the amnesiac he still believed her to be. "Um… what is…? Where did you find this?" she whispered.

"It's yours," he explained softly. "I drove it back here and fixed whatever I could. It works," he said with a touch of pride lighting his voice. "It looks…" He sent his hand slicing into the cool air in a helpless gesture. "You know, it looks bad, but it runs well. I filled up the gas tank, and…" he trailed off, staring at her with concern. "I found you in this car, Meredith. You crashed into a tree off the side of the road, not far from here. Your car must have slipped. It rained a lot that night," he told her.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, drawing blood to hold the tears threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes. Derek frowned at her and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Why did you bring me here?" she asked.

He shoved his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a green _Dartmouth _keychain – her keychain. Taking her hand, he pressed the keys into it, folding her fingers around them protectively before he left it. She knew each and every one of them. She knew of the doors they opened. "This is yours," he said, thrusting his chin in the direction of the parked car. "The car is yours, and the keys are yours."

Her heart quickened with fear. She reached for him with her free hand, her fingers latching onto his strong forearm. "What are you saying, Derek?" she murmured, her eyes alight with disbelief, but she'd seen it coming miles away. Refusing to believe it hadn't made it any easier.

He took a step away from her, his shoes kicking at the dirt as he heaved a great breath. "You have to leave tomorrow," he said tonelessly. "I can't stay here."

"What?" she sputtered, blue eyes electric with incredulity. "Leave? I can't leave! I can… come with you," she suggested desperately.

The look he gave her was hard and sharp, one that could have been directed at an undisciplined child. "No, you can't, Meredith," he stated with finality. "It's not safe. It's not a life you'd want if you remembered…" The words died on his lips a slow heartbreaking death. He shook his head enough to send a curl of dark hair scurrying across his forehead. "It's just not for you. I won't put you through that," he said adamantly.

She stubbornly fought the tears pricking her eyes like tiny needles. "I _want_ to come. I have nothing to get back to," she whispered pleadingly.

His eyes softened on her face, and he muttered a curse before placing his hand firmly on her shoulder. "You don't know that," he soothed. "Don't make this harder than it already is," Derek murmured, pulling her into his arms. Pressing her forehead to his solid chest, she willed some of his strength into her. "I won't put you in anymore danger than I already have."

"What are you talking about?" she mumbled against his chest.

"Somebody saw us here," he said solemnly, gently taking her shoulders to set her away from him. "At first, I wasn't sure, but I am now. He knows you're here, and I'm pretty sure he recognizes me though he doesn't seem too sure yet. They're going to ask you a lot of questions when you get back," he told her.

She bit down on her bottom lip and swallowed past the enormous lump in her throat. "You want me to lie for you?"

He pushed a frustrated fist into the pocket of his dark jacket. "No, damn it, don't lie. I'm not going to tell you anything you'll have to lie about. You know this is Zachary Preston's house, and you should know that I've been living in it without his permission. He has no idea. Don't pull him into this. You know he has nothing to do with it," he said dangerously, a defensive spark jumping into his eyes at the mention of involving his friend.

Meredith stared at him blankly, unable to fathom the thought of leaving. "I can't… I don't understand."

He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a little shake. "If what I think is true, the police are going to be all over you the moment you make a reappearance. I want you to tell them _everything_. Tell them you had an accident that left you with temporary amnesia. Tell them I took you hostage. Everything, Meredith," he stressed, his hands dropping away suddenly.

She swayed at the loss of his supporting hold. "You saved me," she rectified, her eyes boring into his deeply. "Twice," she added softly.

A spark of warmth melted the icy expression in his eyes, teasing his lips into a reluctant, miserable smile. "I locked you in a cabin and treated you like a prisoner," he reminded her with soft-spoken fondness.

She looked away, her gaze straying into the distance, her heart twisting horribly against her ribs. Too tired to fight through the years of cruelty he'd endured, she let her eyes drift back to his. "Should I tell them about…"she trailed off and looked at him pointedly.

His smile grew a little before disappearing entirely as if he understood. "That's up to you," he said quietly.

Nodding lightly, she turned around and started to step back into the forest. He fell into step beside her instantly. For a couple of minutes he was silent as they found their way back through the dense trees. It was getting colder as the sun prepared for its descent, but there were no signs of rain for which she was grateful.

"It shouldn't matter," Derek said gruffly, giving her a quick glance over his shoulder. "This shouldn't matter."

"It matters to me," she answered, her voice lulling over the monotonous sound of their footsteps.

He lowered his head in what passed for a nod. She didn't know what it meant, only that he didn't want to acknowledge the fact that there was more to them than a satisfied craving. "Tonight I'll give you directions…"

"I know how to get back," she said, cutting him off. With a deep silent breath, she prepared for a leap of faith.

"What?" he asked distractedly.

"I know how to get back. I know we're in Seattle," she replied calmly.

He stopped dead in his tracks just as they cleared the woods and brought the cabin into clear view. His eyes sliced to hers ominously, the blue depths dark and stormy. "You remember," he realized disbelievingly.

She met his stare evenly and lifted her chin a little bit higher. "I remember," she confirmed.

* * *

Thanks for reading:) 


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I don't own them. I'm only borrowing.

Author's Note: It's the so-called "phase two" already, some five months later than promised. I'm really sorry for the lack of updates as of late. I've been extremely uninspired. Whether I can blame the show's sudden twists or the interference of real life is really pointless. I'm a bad updater, and I feel terrible about it. I've been working on this for a long long time because I honestly couldn't get myself to like it. I tweaked it as best I could. The next chapter should be easier to write because I've had _that_ playing in my mind for months. Anyway, I owe you all a big thank you for the wonderful reviews I've been receiving. Some of you might have PMed me a while back. I'm sorry for not replying. I'd wanted to have the chapter out at the time, so that would have been my reply. But things got in the way. Things always get in the way. Oh well, this is where I end my rant and sincerely hope you enjoy the next phase of this story. It looks like this is gonna take a while to wrap up, so bear with me.

**Chapter 16  
**"In the lonely light of morning,  
the wound that would not heal.  
It's the bitter taste of losing everything  
I have held so dear."  
Fallen – Sarah McLachlan

* * *

**One Month and Eleven Days Later**

Five identical stainless steel balls hung from transparent lines in a perfect undisturbed row.

She warred with a moment of hesitation before reaching out and plucking one flawless sphere from its poised perfection. With the tips of her fingers, she held the cool metal a second longer than necessary, her lips twitching at the thought of disturbing the serenity. Biting lightly on her bottom lip, she released the weighty ball. It hit the others with a _clink_ and sent the ball at the opposite end swinging harmoniously into the air. The seesaw motion hypnotized her. Her gray eyes swayed back and forth with the tiny spheres. Her sneaker-clad feet tapped to the simple percussion.

_Clink. Clink. Clink._

She imagined him clamping his hand over hers, perhaps terribly irritated or mildly irked, and pulling her hand into his lap like some endearingly misbehaved child. He would whisper something chiding, and she would stop tapping her feet in favor of watching a frown furrow his sun-kissed brow. Though what could have possibly brought them here together, she couldn't quite imagine. Still, she journeyed further into her illusions until his frown dissolved to accommodate one of his rare grins. He wasn't brooding as she'd last seen him. He was warm and tender, and he was real despite the dreamy quality of his hazy deep blue gaze. His fingers smoothed over hers with a mixture of finesse and urgency, and his eyes burned into her, claiming her breath and her heartbeat.

_Clink. Clink. Clink._

God, she missed him, and it was a terrible ache that festered in her chest, bearing resemblance to the persistent pain she'd known since Carol's death. _That_ throbbed everywhere. Everyday. It had become such an integral part of her that she couldn't imagine herself without it.

_A mother never gets over losing a child. _

_Clink. Clink. Clink._

Mocking her, the spheres continued to send each other journeying into the same arc over and over again as if the world wasn't changed. As if the universe hadn't trapped her in the debris of her life. Derek wasn't there to stop them. The simple fact made her feel utterly silly and completely alone in Richard Webber's empty office with its slightly parted shutters and shrilling telephone.

"The laws of physics have always baffled me," a male voice smoothly sliced through the white noise.

Looking over her shoulder sharply, she met the laughing blue gaze of a stranger. He stood just inside the doorway to Richard's office, his hands hidden in the pockets of his lab coat, his broad smile expectant, his eyes – small and bright blue – trained on her. There was a small black stain on his breast pocket where a pen hung dutifully. When she offered nothing but a terse polite smile of acknowledgement, he strolled further into the office, his rubber shoes squeaking cleanly against the tiled ground. She felt grudging towards the intrusion.

"Thank God, I found my calling somewhere far away from Newton and his apple," he continued, his amused voice filling the silence richly as he came around the wide black desk in four long steps.

Her perfunctory smile still in place, she slipped her gaze back to the contraption and its periodic _clinks_. The soothing rhythm lulled and disturbed her one clink at a time. She was tempted to topple it over the edge of the desk, the stranger's presence forgotten. When she was snapped back into focus by the soft swoosh of leather, she found he'd availed himself of Richard's high-backed chair.

Unruffled and supremely confident, he raised his eyebrows at her curiously. "You _can_ talk, right?"

It became exasperating to hold the smile, so she replaced it with an expression more suited to the inkling of depression that was beginning to take root in her chest. "Right," she muttered briefly.

"But…" he prodded.

She cocked an arched golden eyebrow in question. Now, she was wishing she could topple all five spheres and their transparent strings into his lap. Maybe that would stun him into silence.

"Ah, I see," he murmured more to himself than to her. "Nothing I've said is of interest to you," he realized, lowering his dark eyebrows over twinkling blue eyes. He was arrestingly good-looking in his deep blue scrubs and white lab coat. She reluctantly admitted that in his favor.

"That's not true," she objected quickly, her lips curving in a slight smile.

There was something scrutinizing about his long stare, as if he expected her to make further amends for disregarding his presence. When she didn't, he drew in a short breath and his expression turned sheepish. "I'm not really one for silences," he confessed, shrugging to make his point.

Derek was one for silences. He could sit for hours without uttering a single word, sometimes just listening to the world spin, chasing the demons in his past and often sipping wine or beer, whatever he was in the mood for. Other times he would fill the silence with kisses and the quiet murmur of his fingertips against her skin. She missed his silences and his kisses. "I'm sorry," she muttered softly, folding her hands in her lap as she leaned back into the chair across from Richard's desk. She wasn't sure why she apologized, only that the strange blue gaze was turning intensely uncomfortable. Pursing her lips tensely, she looked past him at the shutters.

He mimicked her, his broad back pushing deeply into the chief's swivel-chair. It choked out a tiny groan that went unnoticed as he frowned at her. "I know you," he realized with a self-directed nod. "You're the woman who came back from the dead!" he exclaimed.

She felt like he should have been waving his finger at her or taking a candid photograph. "In the flesh," she smiled sardonically and raised her right hand to tuck a stray piece of golden hair behind her ear.

He mistook her reluctance for humor and smiled at her encouragingly. "Meredith Grey, right?"

She nodded unenthusiastically and silently pleaded with the chief to make an appearance.

"I'm Mark Sloan."

He introduced himself with a flourish that set her world in slow motion. It seemed to take him hours to rise slightly from the faded black chair and reach over the desk to offer her his hand to shake. A thousand images exploded in her mind, like memories of her own that she had once misplaced. The memories weren't her own. They were Derek Shepherd's memories, and they haunted her as she half-heartedly slid her slender fingers into the firm grasp of his larger hand. He clamped them a little bit too firmly, and she tugged her hand away before he released it.

He seemed stunned and wary of her sudden interest as he sunk back into the stiff leather. His crystal blue eyes narrowed as a smile claimed his broad lips. He was much too handsome for any woman to resist. His smile was engaging, his hair a dark lead gray that lent him an air of importance. His eyes invited all sorts of mischievous trouble.

He was leading a successful doctor's life while Derek hid in cottages and ducked behind shadows. She desperately wanted to despise him.

Mark Sloan's lips were parting to say something she had a feeling she wouldn't have wanted to hear.

"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting, Meredith." Chief Webber's apologetic voice didn't leave room for the creeping awkwardness. Somewhere in her heart, she uttered a small prayer of thanks. Richard strolled into the office on swift feet and paused momentarily to nod politely at the other doctor and greet him with a terse, "Doctor Sloan". Mark relinquished his seat faster than she could blink. Four steps later, he was around the desk and hovering somewhere behind her. "I see the two of you have met," Richard observed noncommittally, his gaze absently flicking over their forms. It didn't seem to matter whether they had or they hadn't; he was simply being courteously professional.

"Yes, we have," Mark piped in, sounding amused.

"Doctor Sloan joined the Seattle Grace team this morning. I trust he's going to bring a lot to the plastics division of the hospital. He's one of the most renowned plastic surgeons on the east coast. We're pleased to have him here," Chief Webber stated informatively, directing an approving smile at the talented doctor.

She stiffened but kept her cold smile in place. "You asked to see me," Meredith prodded, completely ignoring the praise of the plastic surgeon's talent in her eagerness to leave the four-walled office and the memory of Mark Sloan behind.

The chief nodded distractedly. "Yes, I did. Doctor Sloan? How can I help you?"

It was a polite way for asking for privacy. Meredith thought it was marvelous because Mark picked up on it instantly.

"Just passed by to get a copy of the contract," Mark replied, in what she believed was his typical lazy drawl.

"I left it with Patricia." Richard made a gesture with his arm towards his secretary's office.

Mark took his cue. "Alright, thanks. It was a pleasure meeting you, Doctor Meredith Grey."

She imagined he grinned at that, but she didn't turn to look because it was still unsettling to see him. "Likewise," she said, and a moment later the door clicked shut after him.

"So, Meredith, how are you really doing?" Chief Webber asked, his concern palpable in the way his sharp eyes softened with caring.

She lowered her eyes to study her nails and tried her best to look honest. "I'm better, thank you," she lied.

He didn't seem convinced. "I know it's been a rough month since you got here. If there's anything I can do to make this easier…"

"You've done a lot already. Thank you."

"Alright, just don't hesitate to ask," he said firmly to which she nodded dutifully. There was a long pause that she didn't bother to interrupt because she knew he hadn't brought her in just to ask about her wellbeing. "Actually, Meredith, I asked you to come here because I would like to republish some of your mother's work in a local medical journal," he admitted. "Ellis-uh, your mother gave you full control over all of her writings when she died, but she asked me to republish whenever I can."

Without a moment's hesitation, she nodded eagerly. "Of course. She'd love for her work to still be circulating," she said this with great respect and a tinge of bitterness which went unnoticed. "Which paper are you thinking about?"

At this, he shifted uncomfortably and folded his large hands on the desk before him, drawing her gaze back to the weird contraption with its pendulums. "I didn't exactly choose. They asked to republish her paper on SIDS." A beat of silence elapsed. He seemed to take her silence as acquiescence. "Everyone found her most passionate about that topic," he added in a softer tone.

It became a lot harder to swallow when she raised her eyes and met his sympathetic dark ones. Her throat ached. Her heart was reluctant to beat. Richard was regarding her strangely.

"I completely understand if you don't want to have it published. After Carol…" He cleared his throat uneasily and became very fidgety as he reached for his box of tissues and passed it to her.

She wasn't sure why, but when she touched her hand to her cheek it came back wet with her tears. "You sh-" her voice broke on a soft sob that she artfully suppressed. "I'm sorry. I…"

"Meredith, _I'm_ sorry," Richard interrupted earnestly, looking utterly forlorn for having caused her distress. "I shouldn't have…"

She sniffled like a child, but her voice was unwavering when she said, "Publish it." Wiping furiously at the tears smearing her cheeks, she came to her feet. "Excuse me, Chief Webber, my shift ends in an hour, and I have a lot to wrap up."

She left before he could say anything else.

----

"So somebody finally broke Derek Shepherd," said Paul Stuart, an amused grin holding his wide mouth. His teeth were reasonably straight and promised that they'd once been white. Their faded yellowish tint was a price well-paid to nicotine and caffeine.

Derek took in the familiar smile with a dark scowl. Returning his gaze to the newspaper he held open in both hands, he paced the length of the filthy cow-print rag again. "I don't know what you're talking about, Paul," he shot back tightly, his blue eyes narrowing over the newsprint.

"You know if you read it seven more times it won't say anything more," he said slowly, his tone gentler now as the large grin shrunk into a slight smile.

Derek shot him a dirty look over the top of the newspaper and paused by the small window to peer into the rainy morning. Seattle's space needle deceptively towered above the rest of the city. He glanced at the paper again. It was inky and bore the grayish streaks of his thumbprints. Her black and white photograph was small, tucked to the right beneath an insignificant column of black-print. It looked old. She was wearing a Dartmouth sweater and smiling at the camera. A genuine honest-to-God smile. It did something funny to her face, the way her nose seemed even smaller, and her eyes narrowed merrily – gray, piercing.

"What's her name?" Paul asked, leaning heavily into the moldy wooden chair. It groaned in protest as if greatly pained by the slim man's weight.

Derek's lips narrowed in what resembled regret. "Meredith Grey," he said quietly, the name rolling off his tongue exquisitely. He'd missed the sound of it. The story of her return from death captured him entirely. He'd read it time and again, always feeling that it wasn't quite what he'd hoped it would be. He wanted to know if _they_ had come to see her. He wanted to know if Zack knew. He wanted her to know he wasn't as angry as he'd been when they'd parted ways. He wanted her to know that turning away had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

"Don't brood, Derek. It doesn't become you," Paul teased, reaching for the half-eaten bagel on the table. He sniffed it suspiciously before taking a hearty bite out of it.

Shaking his head, Derek finally folded the paper and tucked it against his side. "Shut up, Paul," he grumbled grouchily. "We have a stop to make before we go," he added, pleased with his abrupt decision.

The other man lifted both eyebrows over a mouthful of a day-old bagel. "Let me guess," he mumbled.

"Spare me," Derek snapped, slanting a sharp glance at the thin broad-shouldered circumstantial thief from Wyoming.

With a tickled chuckle, Paul raised his arms in an emulation of surrender. "I'm just saying. Meredith Grey better be worth the detour."

----

"I'm Cristina Yang," said the dark-haired intern matter-of-factly. Her long dark curls were barely contained in a haphazard ponytail she obviously hadn't given much thought to.

Meredith smiled slightly. "Meredith Grey," she answered in the same no-nonsense tone. They didn't shake hands, but they stared at each other for a moment longer than politeness allowed as if sizing up a potential competitor.

"Are you done here?" Cristina Yang asked, leaning against the counter at the Nurse's Station. The hospital bustled around her, and she belonged with an ease that sparked a tinge of envy in Meredith.

"I will be as soon as I fill this out," she replied, waving a chart before her chest.

"Good, Joe's after that?"

It was an extension of friendship, and it warmed Meredith's heart. "Sure," she agreed with a nod.

"Alright, I'll see you there."

* * *

Thanks for reading! Oh and happy valentine's day! Hope you have a lovely one:)


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just striving to entertain.

Author's Note: I do believe I'm improving. It hasn't been a month! It hasn't even been two weeks! Of course, I have all of you to thank for your amazingly inspiring reviews. I wouldn't have been half as compelled if it weren't for that. So I'm extremely grateful and glad you're still enjoying this admittedly strange setting for Meredith and Derek. I like this chapter – for a change. Alex finally makes an appearance, and I like Alex, especially when he's being a jerk… something I probably don't share with the rest of the population. Anyway, I do hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Chapter 17  
**"You're in my arms,  
And all the world is gone."  
So Close – Jon McLaughlin

* * *

"Beer," said the jolly bartender, his blue eyes twinkling at her merrily as he half-slammed half-slid an oversaturated mug of beer on the bar before her. The foamy liquid sloshed over the sides ungracefully, making a small puddle that he regarded with a critical eye. He seemed to consider reaching for the dishrag in his back-pocket and wiping the counter, but he decided against it.

Meredith could see why. Having endured its tipsy tenants, their nutshells and their sticky cocktails till midnight, the bar looked anything but inviting. She grimaced at the offensive mug of beer and swiveled slightly in her stool. "I didn't order that," she said over the raucous crowd.

Joe – the bartender – shrugged beefy shoulders under a forest-green button up shirt. "It's on the house," he stated with a self-congratulating smile.

She shot him an exasperated look. "I don't like beer."

As an afterthought, he winked at her and slid along the bar to answer the summons of a drunken nurse whose flirtatious smile was lost on the handsome accountant-type man beside her.

"I do," Alex Karev said, his arm reaching past her for the mug in question. He fastened all five groomed fingers around the transparent handle and carried the dripping mug over her head.

"Well, you're welcome to it," she muttered under her breath, glaring at the intern standing behind her as she brushed a drop of beer off the shoulder of her black wool sweater. His thigh bumped into the back of her stool, and it rocked lightly. She wasn't sure how accidental _that_ was.

"Thanks for that by the way," he said cheekily, taking a huge gulp of the foamy beer. "I'm Alex Karev."

"Evil spawn," Izzie Stevens hissed from the barstool to her right, her dark eyes lighting on him with uncensored disgust.

On the stool to her left, Cristina was entirely engrossed in her Harvey Wallbanger, but she managed to roll her eyes disdainfully – whether at Izzie or at Alex Karev, Meredith wasn't entirely sure.

"Ah, the girls unite." He smacked his lips rudely and winked at Izzie before sliding an all-too-friendly arm around Meredith's shoulders. "So where were you when everyone thought you were dead?" he asked conversationally before downing another long sip of beer.

Meredith shrugged his arm off, noting the way Izzie Stevens' eyes narrowed on him angrily. "You read the story in the paper, didn't you?"

He straightened and shook out attractively broad shoulders. His expression dismissed the newspaper's story as surely as she knew it to be untrue. "A well-meaning church took you in somewhere in the suburbs, right. I don't buy that," he drawled.

"That's enough, Alex," Izzie admonished him. "Why are you such an ass?" she grumbled.

"That's just me, sweetheart," he answered, his voice so sweet it was almost sticky.

Such a defensive character, thought Meredith, her lips curling inward as she watched the engaging exchange.

Turning her back on him with finality, Izzie popped the green olive from her Martini into her mouth.

Alex clucked his tongue. "That's rude, Doctor Model," he scolded her in a mocking tone that made her frown deeply until he came up behind her and bent low at the waist to place his lips in the vicinity of her ear. She went completely still. "Hasn't the boyfriend been showing up often enough to keep you from getting so uptight?" he murmured loud enough for both Meredith and Cristina to hear.

Having been suspiciously quiet for a while, Cristina snickered at that. "The boyfriend is a surfer," she said, deeply amused by the tidbit.

Meredith bit back a sardonic smile. She wasn't quite tipsy enough to find things as amusing as Cristina was finding them.

Izzie snapped around in her stool dangerously, her brown eyes blazing as Alex reflexively took a step backwards. "A hockey-player. He's a hockey-player," she rectified, dividing an injured glare between Alex and Cristina.

"So frustrated," remarked Alex, shaking his head sadly. "Steve can't satisfy a model," he added.

"Hank," Izzie corrected.

"Anytime I can be of service…" he trailed off suggestively and wiggled his eyebrows teasingly.

"Go to hell, Alex," she snapped.

"Gladly." He faked a courteous bow and swept past them to reward the efforts of the nurse with the flirtatious smile. Meredith watched him grin at her and whisper something in her ear that made her giggling lips pause to form an astonished 'o'.

"Jerk." Izzie's stung voice made her turn away from the unfolding scene and regard the blond curiously.

"So where's Hank?" she asked.

"He doesn't live here," was the short reply.

Meredith nodded and looked away, regretting the overture into the other woman's life. She felt untowardly prying. Digging a couple of bills out of her purse, she presented them to the bartender as he refreshed Cristina's drink. "I'm going to go get some sleep before tomorrow's shift," she told the two women, earning a shrug from Cristina and an understanding nod from Izzie. She slipped her purse over her shoulder and slid out of her stool.

Moments later, she was on the pavement, silhouetted against the deceptively cheerful entrance to the bar. She inhaled a deep breath of Seattle's fresh air, feeling more sober than she had before entering the Emerald City Bar. A raindrop hit her square on the nose, and she smiled a bitter self-deprecating smile.

----

The streetlight across the road from the townhouse stole its way into Meredith Grey's living room through the drawn pale red curtains. It was almost completely dark, except for the breach of the soft yellow light into his sanctuary, where he was surrounded by her intoxicating scent and her things – impersonal as they were. The spacious rooms with their fancy furniture and pretentious ornaments looked nothing like her.

He reclined into the beige armchair with the soft classy pattern, and his eyes, having adjusted to the relative darkness well, touched on the oddities of furniture crowding her living room. Feeling curiously cheated out of knowing Meredith in these normal surroundings, he closed his eyes briefly, allowing his tense body to uncoil to the persistent patter of the rain. He found himself wondering if she was still afraid of driving under the unrestrained torrents of rain. When he identified his concern as worry, his body snapped tensely, his muscles bunching painfully as his eyes shot open. He didn't care for his sudden preoccupation with Meredith Grey and her fears.

Blinking rapidly to readjust to the darkness, he released a long frustrated breath. Where the hell was she? He'd been shifting restlessly on her dusty furniture for what seemed like hours, unsure as to why he was there in the first place. Leaving had occurred to him more times than he could count, but he'd dismissed it every time with a perfectly plausible excuse that salved his threatened composure. As if summoned by the desperate blackness of his thoughts, a noisy engine's drone filled the night and a pair of headlights sliced through the opaque curtains before the car climbed the driveway and stopped.

Feeling something akin to anticipation, Derek stealthily crept out of his seat and approached the doorway to the living room, watching the townhouse's door rattle furiously before swinging open. She swept in like one done a great grievance by Mother Nature's extravagant display of power. Wrestling her olive green umbrella, she finally managed to close it and thrust her elbow at the door's edge, shutting it against the raging wind. She shook off her rain-splattered coat and hung it alongside her purse and her umbrella on the hall-tree. And then her hands, pale and slender, raked through her wind-tossed golden hair, holding it away from her face as she sighed deeply – sadly. He felt a tug somewhere in the vicinity of his chest and expertly ignored it. Her arms fell back to her sides resignedly, and he allowed his gaze to drink her in, low-cut, hip-hugging jeans and a black v-necked sweater with a plunging neckline. Unremarkably remarkable.

She was walking right towards him before he could formulate a discreet plan to keep her from alerting anyone to his presence. Acting swiftly and on a whim, Derek grabbed her as soon as she was within reach, clamping one hand over her mouth as he pulled her into his arms.

She let out a startled muffled shriek against his hand, her hands shoving forcefully into his chest, her gray eyes widening frantically to make out his features in the barely lit room. "Meredith," he whispered softly, and she went suddenly completely still. "Be quiet. It's me."

The fight died out of her as abruptly as it had blazed to life and just as quickly his hand fell from her lips. He felt foolish with his arm wrapped tightly around her slender waist, shackling her to him like some clingy paramour who indulged in cheesy lines and smitten smiles. He felt awkward even when he could clearly detail every contour of her face and she seemed unable to see him as her body slacked against his, perhaps in relief. He wasn't entirely sure why she submissively leaned into his subduing embrace. His hold on her tightened for a moment before he released her and took a step backwards.

A travesty of a smile shivered on her pink lips. "It's you," she echoed softly, raising her hand to his face in near disbelief. Her fingertips were cool where they touched his cheek, but he turned his face into the tenderness of her touch.

He felt raw and terrified. "Did I scare you?" he asked huskily, his dark eyebrows lowering in concern over narrowed blue eyes.

She regarded him ruefully, tipping her blond head to the side as if in contemplation. Her fingers soothingly stroked his strong jaw, tracing the outline of his beard, and she seemed utterly taken by the simple task. "A little," she finally conceded, her gaze riveted to his lips.

He lifted his hand and covered hers with it, rubbing his fingers against hers warmly. Dragging her hand lower, he planted soft kisses on the inside of her wrist. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Derek," she sighed his name with such uninhibited longing it made his throat tighten with emotion. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

Her apology went unacknowledged as he lowered his head to hers and kissed her – softly at first like a colt testing the loyalty of its frail legs. He parted her lips with his and nipped gently at her lower lip. She opened her mouth to his probing assault lovingly, and he swept the inside of it with his tongue, reacquainting himself with the sweet taste of her. They kissed slowly and softly until he thought he would go insane with desire. Bracketing her narrow waist, his hands began to lift the hem of her sweater, caressing the smooth skin they exposed as they slipped to her back. From the small of her back, he slid his questing hands beneath the waist-band of her jeans and pulled her closer to him, nestling his erection against her belly. She gasped into his mouth, surprised or appalled, and he pulled away, resting his forehead heavily against hers. His breath came raggedly against her swollen lips. She smoothed her dainty hands across his shoulders and tenderly kissed the prickly skin above his lips. His muscles jumped under her touch, and he prayed she didn't know how much control she wielded over his traitorous body.

"Jesus," he hissed, burying his face in the hollow between her neck and her shoulder. It sounded like anything but a supplication. He felt her fingers sift through his hair, combing through the dark tresses reverently. Derek pressed his lips to the base of her neck, the warmth of her skin making him burn with yearning. God, he couldn't let her go. He followed the dipping neckline of her sweater with his mouth. The swell of her breasts was kissed hotly. His tongue moistened the hollow between her breasts, and he felt the breath steal out of her lungs.

He pulled away so suddenly, he could swear she swayed on the spot. It took more willpower than he knew he possessed to keep himself from pulling her back into his arms and finishing what they'd started. Wrapping his fingers strongly about her elbow, he steadied her and gazed into her glazed eyes. "I can't," he groaned. A string of obscenities left his lips in quiet utterances. "I can't stay."

She seemed stricken, her striking eyes haunted in her beautifully flushed face. "Please stay," she whispered, her eyes shining like beckoning gems in the darkness.

He shook his head firmly in self-denial. He couldn't. "I can't. Paul is waiting for me. We have to go. I can't be here much longer," he said quietly, gathering his scattered thoughts, furious with himself for being so irresponsibly mindless.

Watching him intently through the fringes of her golden lashes, she pursed her thoroughly-kissed lips as if they were tender. "Go where?" she probed.

Derek stared at her lips for an inordinate amount of time before shoving a punishing hand through his hair. He tugged at the trimmed dark tresses mercilessly, setting them away from his face. "I don't know," he answered after a long pause.

The look she gave him was dubious and accusing. "You're lying," she stated matter-of-factly, daring him to second his lie.

He felt like lashing out at her for reading him so well. "I can't tell you," he snapped, unreasonably directing his anger towards her.

"Why?" Meredith insisted.

He was fairly certain she was intentionally testing his patience. Forcing his tense jaw into what he hoped resembled a peaceful smile, he decided to humor her. "For your safety," he murmured calmly.

She nodded though he knew her well enough to tell she was anything but acquiescent. "Write to me when you're somewhere safe," she pleaded.

The line of his lips tightened grimly as he gave his head a hard shake. "No," he asserted firmly, leaving no room for argument.

Not swayed by his adamancy, she persisted doggedly. "Please," she whispered.

"No, Meredith," he said harshly, removing his hand from her arm when he realized he was still touching her. "This ends here, tonight," he reasserted. "I'm here to tell you that you've been incredibly foolish," Derek scolded her.

Her eyes flashed at him angrily.

He wanted to kiss her and melt her anger so very badly. "Eager as you are to deny it, somebody saw us in the cabin, Meredith," he informed her coldly, his tone disdainful. "He's going to tell sooner or later."

She shook her head in vehement defiance. "He hasn't. He _won't_," she stressed, her confidence faltering in the trembling of her parted lips.

He hated himself for shattering what little assurance she'd had. "I wouldn't be so sure. You're going to get into a lot of trouble if you don't tell them the truth before he does."

The thought seemed to shake her. She hugged herself lightly. "How can I?" she whispered, sounding terribly terrified like a child caught in a game well-beyond her years.

"Tell them I threatened you, but your conscience has gotten the best of you," he suggested calmly, refusing to show her how much he wished he could protect her from the madness. "Tell them anything. Blame it on me. One more charge won't make the jail sentence any more unbearable," he reasoned, hoping he sounded rational to her. He sounded insane to himself.

He thought he heard her whimper, but he didn't dare acknowledge what the notion of her pain did to his hardened heart.

"I have to go," he said softly.

She was crying silently. Tears slipped down her cheeks unchecked. "No," she choked out, her hand reaching for him, latching onto his forearm. "Stay here, tonight. Nobody will know you were here," she promised, sniffling quietly.

He ached for her – physically. His chest clenched painfully like he would collapse if the pain didn't let up. It was harder to breathe when he gently removed her hand from his arm and reached for her face. He brushed her tears away with nimble fingertips. "I can't," he repeated on a broken sign. He kissed her chastely on the lips and ran his hand over her silky golden hair. "Goodbye Meredith."

* * *

Thanks for reading! 


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: I still don't own them.

Author's Note: So I've had this written for a while, but I've been postponing posting it here until I could read through it for the gazillionth time and fix it because despite the fact that it's in "postable" format, I still hate it. Well, hate is too strong a word here. It's just not my favorite chapter ever - even some four rewrites later. Anyway I thought it was time I posted. I would like to thank all of you for your wonderful reviews on the last chapter. I've poured over each one, and going back to read through some reviews gave me direction in this chapter. Some of the questions that were asked through reviews made me realize that some things may not have been as clear as I wanted them to be, so this chapter and the next (which is a WIP as of now since I'm on a serious mission to improve the frequency of my updates). I'd say the next chapter could be out as soon as next week, but no promises on that one because my muse is as fickle as they come. Last but not least, I'd like to thank **Wamzwrites** for beta-reading this chapter and for helping me finally decide the direction I'm taking with this. Read on...

**Chapter 18  
**"Tell them it's me who made you sad  
Tell them the fairytale gone bad."  
Fairytale Gone Bad – Sunrise Avenue

* * *

_It was foggy and bitterly cold the day she was supposed to leave. _

_Her keys bit into the flesh of her fingers where she clutched them close to her hip. The fingers of her other hand were curled around a white paper bag that held two grilled cheese sandwiches – the breakfast he'd made her despite the fact that he couldn't look at her. There was a thermos of black coffee on the living room table, also hers – also courtesy of his unprovoked grudging kindness. She liked the coffee he made. It was always bitter enough to snap her into the present, scalding enough to give her mornings a sharp sting, and it always left her stomach churning in protest. _

_He couldn't look at her or he wouldn't. She wasn't sure. It made her feel small, very small indeed, like a fleck of dust that was brushed away as surely as something undesirable was cast aside. It made her feel deceitful, unworthy of his gaze – unworthy even of breathing. Like his mother. Perhaps like Addison before there were three bullet holes in her chest that made Derek touch his own chest in remembrance or something that acutely resembled pain. Or like Mark when he exchanged illicit kisses with Addison in dark bedrooms. "Derek," she began hesitantly, her grip on the keys tightening. The cool metal fought back by digging at the tough shell of her skin brutally. "Say something," she pleaded, scanning his stoic features sadly. _

_Silhouetted against the living room window, he stood tall and silent, his shoulder facing her, his handsome face in profile. He was wearing black – charcoal black slacks and a black long-sleeved shirt – as if the color was meant to reflect his mood or his disposition. "You outright lied to me," he intoned coolly, unmoving even as the words rang harshly in the tense silence. His clenched jaw was set so rigidly it hardly moved as he spoke. He shifted hard blue eyes to her face, looking at for the first time since last night, and she wished he hadn't. Like shards of ice, his steely eyes sliced into her with great distaste. He didn't turn around. Instead from his unbending posture by the window, he allowed his insolent gaze to trail over her. _

_Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she regarded him with diminishing patience. "I didn't owe you anything," she protested quietly, her lips pursed, her bruised pride making an indignant appearance. "I was your hostage first, remember?" Though if she acknowledged the truth, she would have realized that she hadn't been his hostage at all. He hadn't voluntarily abducted her. More than anything, he'd done her a favor. He'd saved her life._

_Self-loathing as ever, his lips turned upwards at the corners in a sallow twist that was somewhere between cynical and bitter. He was a man whose demystification with the world had left him hollow and cold. "I remember. I also remember that later you took to the warm spot in my bed," he answered slowly, and she had a feeling he purposely drew out the words to intensify her humiliation. "You can't always be so selective with your memory," he added smoothly. _

"_That's not fair," she hissed, stung by his offhand cruelty. _

_Her injured reply snapped his restraint like the heel of a heavy shoe slamming against a slender twig. "The truth isn't supposed to be fair," he bellowed, and suddenly he wasn't by the window anymore. He was turning and advancing towards her quickly – self-possession forgotten. _

_She held her ground when he reached out and caught her shoulders. _

_He seemed to restrain himself from shaking her. "Just tell me one thing, and I want the fucking truth, Meredith," he gritted out. She glowered at him resolutely, not cowering away from the violence of his stance. "Is the ring yours?"_

_Meredith blinked at him in surprise, watching his anger emanate like some physical energy that stole her breath. "No," she murmured, her face a perfect mask of composure. _

_His own composure was a thing of the past. Indigo blue eyes had turned black with rage, but he didn't seem to know where it belonged and why it was there. "Then what the hell were you doing with an engagement ring?" he bit out. _

_Lifting her hand, she placed it on his chest in pretense of pushing him away, but the force she put behind it was feeble and half-hearted. She wanted to touch him, feel his warmth against her fingertips and reassure herself that the man she had known him to be was real. "It was my mother's," she replied softly, refusing to succumb to the tears burning at her eyes. And God, she wished he would stop being so angry and just hold her because she deserved at least that before he shut her out of his life forever. But she knew Derek wasn't about to do that._

"_Was?" he echoed, his hollow voice losing its edge as he stared at her._

_She nodded and dropped her gaze to where her hand was nestled against his chest, gently oscillating with the regular pattern of his breathing. "It was her funeral the day of the accident," she reported mechanically to which his eyes narrowed in question. _

_His expression became shuttered in the blink of an eye as if he resolved not to be curious about her and about the life he knew nothing of. He let her go with a gentle push that set her away from him as if he were physically trying to set her aside. He lifted his sturdy jaw, looking past her in an efficient dismissal that he accentuated by brushing past her. His steps were long and evenly paced as he walked away only to stop in the doorway to the living room. With his back to her face, he spoke in a low detached voice, "There's a gas station not far from here. There's only one road. You won't get lost. Twenty minutes out, you'll find the station. They'll give you directions to wherever you want to go."_

"_Derek," she whispered and she sounded broken. "Please." _

"_Just go," he snapped, slamming into his bedroom with a force that rattled the cabin's windows._

"You know for a man who's finally free, you don't look very happy," Paul observed; the sudden intrusion of his voice on the stark silence did not ruffle the sole occupant of the modest room. He stood by the small television set, his bearing carrying a myriad of unspoken realizations that he didn't voice because there was a line where one's privacy began that neither of them was inclined to cross.

Derek was glad for the tacit agreement. He was in no mood to unveil the darkness that had settled over him since that day in Seattle. "How do you know what I look like when I'm happy?" he shot back sourly, straightening against the wooden headboard of the single bed. He set the papers in his hands aside, dropping the blue pen over them. It rolled hesitantly before coming to a tentative stop.

Frowning, Paul crossed his wiry arms across his bony chest. "Good point, doc, but…"

"Don't call me that," he interrupted, his expression turning even more thunderous. It was a dog's name – her dog's name. He wondered when he began thinking of the stupid terrier as _her_ dog.

The other man raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Well, _Shep_, I was saying that when people are happy, they're not constantly frowning or snapping. And when people are free to do whatever they want after years of not being able to, they usually seize the chance and not keep themselves locked up in a room not much bigger than a fucking prison cell," he finished in a no nonsense tone.

Derek sighed and rubbed his neck tiredly. He needed a shave and a change of scenery, but he didn't feel like doing anything about either. "Not whatever I want, and it _is_ bigger," he retorted stubbornly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Picking up the discarded papers and the rebellious pen, he came to his feet.

"Not whatever you want," Paul repeated, nodding more to himself than anyone else as if his suspicions had been confirmed.

He crossed the space between his bed and an obsessively uncluttered wooden desk where he set the papers neatly and slipped the pen into a plastic cup. "Yeah," he murmured finally, turning to face his accomplice.

"What's with the papers?" Paul asked, pointing with his chin to the desk. "Where'd they come from?"

"Research," he answered dismissively. "I paid a kid a couple of bucks to have them printed out for me at an internet shop. I got them off the database of the hospital I used to work at using my sister's account."

"Isn't that traceable?" he wondered worriedly, his back stiffening at the intrusion of the thought.

"Nobody knows I have her password." Derek shrugged and irritably dragged his fingers through his messy dark hair. Lately he couldn't stop thinking about the accident that had brought Meredith Grey crashing into his life. The image of her blue jeep ambling off the road and into a mammoth tree of the pine variety made him break out in a cold sweat. That was when he got a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach, a twist in his gut that told him there was something wrong with that picture. The accident. There was something very wrong.

Paul was watching him curiously, a concerned frown contorting his lean face. "You could have stayed in Seattle that one night, Derek. You know that," he said quietly as if he feared the words would push the other man over an edge to which he was dangerously close.

There was ghost of a smile on Derek's lips when he hitched his hip on the desk, resting against it as he folded his arms before his chest.

"_Stay here, tonight. Nobody will know you were here," she promised, sniffling quietly._

"I couldn't take a chance like that with her." He shook his head in negative affirmation like the idea was preposterous.

"From what I gathered, she wanted you to," he pointed out wryly.

"She's…" he trailed off in search of the perfect word to describe the entirely self-effacing way Meredith Grey conducted her life. She'd pretended to be an amnesiac for the most part of their brief affair to avoid ventures into her personal life. Most people Derek knew loved nothing more than talking about themselves. "She's self-sacrificing," he decided, and when the description was allowed to dwindle in the air, it struck him with a force that stilled his heart for a moment too long. Self-sacrificing. Self-effacing. The accident. It wasn't an _accident_. The way she had swerved off the road with purpose and rammed into that tree without attempting to slow down was suicidal. He felt a bead of sweat collect at his left temple and roll down his stubbly cheek.

"Well, you should have taken your chance when… Hey, man, are you alright? You look a little pale," Paul noted anxiously. He was starting to move towards his friend when Derek held his hand up, stalling him.

"I'm fine. I just ate something that didn't sit well," he lied, straightening in the process. With the shoulder of his blue t-shirt he rubbed off the moisture clinging to his short beard.

Paul didn't seem convinced, but he stepped back and nodded, respecting the other man's privacy. "Alright, I'm heading out. Get some rest, Shep. You look like you need it," he advised, and he was almost out the door before he stopped and turned around. "Hey, Derek, there's another party at the beach tonight. The girls are hot as hell. And there'll be drinking – lots of it. God knows you look like you need a drink half the time," he joked, smiling wanly with his failed attempt at humor. "If you want to go, just stop by my room before ten."

"Yeah, thanks, man." _No, thanks._ He smiled a false thin smile that felt tasteless on his lips. His mind was racing with thoughts that made him want to throw up or punch something or go back to Seattle and shake some sense into her.

Paul was looking at him strangely, and Derek almost snapped at him to just leave. "Lighten up, buddy, we're in Panama!" he tossed in with a genuine grin before pulling the door shut.

Pulling out the uncomfortable wooden chair he had taken to, he dropped onto it listlessly, propped his elbows on the desk and buried his head in his hands. He was furious with her. He was furious with himself for caring about Meredith Grey and her suicidal tendencies. He was furious. Period. God, he could just shake her or kiss her. She could have died. Had he not found her, she _would_ have died. The prospect chilled him to the bone, and he found himself craving to be near her, to make sure she was still breathing and alive.

He lifted his head and impulsively pulled the drawer open, his fingers going in search of that small slip of paper he had carried with him from Seattle. When he found it, he retrieved it and smoothed it over the desk, erasing the wrinkles of the journey it had crossed. _Meredith Grey_. And a sequence of numbers. He'd found it displayed on her fridge with a magnet. After hesitating for well over five minutes, he'd taken a piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled the number there before shoving it deep into the front pocket of his denim pants as if he could pretend that he hadn't taken it at all.

Staring at the black ink made the digits blur in and out of focus. Heaving a deep breath, he picked up the phone installed in his bedroom and dialed the number.

It rang twice before she picked up.

"_Hello,"_ an exasperated sigh, touched by impatience, tempered by manners. Meredith.

His chest did something funny, and he leaned back into the chair, releasing a steady breath into the mouthpiece.

"_Hello," _she repeated, this time irritated, slightly more forceful, but then he breathed again, and he could almost imagine her straightening, frowning, lowering her voice. _"Hello?" _and it was a hint of anxious anticipation that colored her voice this time.

Derek felt his own breath pause because she _knew_, and he didn't know what that meant.

"_Derek? Is this you?"_ she whispered to him, the hopeful note to her voice making his throat tighten with emotion. _"Talk to me, please,"_ and that murmur was more desperate than anything, and Derek could have listened to her whispering all night but he quietly replaced the phone on the cradle.

She was alive.

He slammed his fist against the wooden surface of the desk.

--

_The fire in the hearth flickered with impatience, its orange flames lustily licking at the cackling logs. The eerie shadows its monstrous shape wrought onto the cozy room were cast into sharp relief by the soft glow of the lamplight. He heard a rumble of thunder in the distance, powerful and enraged, and anticipated rain. Crouching by the fireplace, he chose three logs from the pile he'd gathered earlier and carefully fed them to the fire. He pondered the pathetic demise of the firewood as he listened to the steady pattern of her soft breathing. The rustle of the aging recycled paper as it played between her slender fingers made a fine backdrop to the sounds of the night. He glowered at the flames, trying to erase her image as she was at the moment._

_Curled into the corner of the three-seat couch, her bare feet tucked beneath her in an effort to ward off the night chill, she was engrossed in the news article of his conviction with Addison's murder. Her golden hair escaped from a messy chignon to flirt with her jaw. He itched to brush the loose locks away from her serious face and replace their touch with his lips._

_She was making him feel mellow. _

"_Your mother testified against you," she said quietly, her voice soft and pained. _

_Derek turned around then, partly because the heat from the fire made his face ache, mostly because he wanted to see the look on her face. Her gray eyes connected with his, full of questions and remorse – and the kind of tenderness that made his chest cave delicately like a trail of collapsing dominos. Giving her a derisive smile, he came to his feet and crossed the distance from the hearth to the couch. "She did," he confirmed, his voice just as chilly as hers was warm. He sat in the middle of the worn couch, closer to her side than to the empty one, feeling as if the ridiculous piece of paper in her hand forbade their intimacy. He was reluctant to breach the barrier it had built. When he looked at Meredith, he found her studying him with inquisitive eyes. The firelight traced the curve of her delicate jaw beautifully. He found himself frowning at her. _

"_Why?" _

_The single word hung like a deadweight in the silence. He cleared his throat and looked away from the kindness in her steady gaze. "She believed in what she said," he reported mechanically. _

"_She didn't believe in you," she rectified._

_He was vaguely aware of her reaching for the table and letting the paper slip from her fingers to its polished cherry wood surface – dismissed, as if it didn't matter. His mother hadn't believed in him, but Meredith Grey did, for reasons that were beyond his understanding. The touch of her fingers against his hair startled him, a breach of the barriers he'd imagined. He resolutely stared ahead, unwilling to acknowledge her compassion, but when the tip of her thumb followed the curve of his ear, he turned his face into her touch, giving into her softness and her sadness. He sat motionless, wondering if her touch was meant to soothe him or herself, wondering for the first time since she'd become a part of his life how many other men had known the mixture of seduction and tenderness in Meredith Grey's thoughtless caresses. _

_Closing his eyes against the anger the disturbing thought provoked, he felt her shift on the couch, perhaps inching towards him, and then her bare feet were in his lap, playful and teasing. When he opened his eyes, she gave him a beguiling smile that was nothing like the burdened woman he often saw in her. It made him feel lighter, if only for a moment, and he returned her smile as his strong hands closed over the delicate arch of one foot, startling a gasp of mingled surprise and pleasure from her sensuous lips. He rolled the pad of his thumb into the smooth curve of the sole of her foot, his palm pressing into the sensitive skin soothingly. His eyes never left her face as he treated her other foot to a similar massage and the dreamy sounds of her sighs drowned the racket of the fire. Her cold feet grew warm beneath his touch, and her sighs softened into beckoning moans. Beckoned, Derek slid his hands up her graceful ankles to her calves, hooking them behind her knees, and he pulled her towards him. She laughed in protest, laying her hand on his shoulder to stop him when he lifted her onto his lap._

"_Derek," she complained half-heartedly. "I just showered." Her frown was endearing._

_He chuckled, and having trapped her with his arms, caught her stubborn jaw with both hands. His lips sought hers in a thirsty kiss. He held her head still for his thorough exploration of her mouth. His tongue flicked past her lips teasingly, a sexual innuendo that left them both breathless. Whimpering softly, she lifted her hands to his, which still framed her face, and placed them on his wrists, as if searching for a solid place to end her free fall. Derek moved his hands to her sides and pressed her closer to him, loving the feeling of her soft breasts flattening against his chest. His lips tugged away from hers, slipping down her neck before gently sucking at the warm skin of her collarbone. Her arms slipped around him, and she did something strange. She hugged him fiercely, shattering the sexual tone of the moment, shaping it instead into one of crushing tenderness and caring._

_He hugged her back just as strongly because it seemed like the right thing to do, and because part of him confessed to being just as starved for an emotional connection. "Meredith," he said hesitantly, his deep voice tumbling oddly into the intimacy of the moment. "Are you alright?" _

_When she pulled back and kissed him lightly on the lips, there were tears in her eyes. He whisked them away with his fingertips, wondering how someone whose memory was lost found something to grieve in the empty present. She smiled at him tremulously as if frightened he'd see past the fragility of that smile, but Derek didn't know what to look for. He didn't smile back. _

"_I'm fine," she lied. _

"_You're not fine," he disagreed, shaking his head stubbornly. She looked away. She distanced herself from him even though she was sitting on his lap, her slim shoulder pushing into his chest, her golden hair inches from his mouth. She had that ability to isolate herself when he felt as raw and exposed as an open wound. Much as he hated to admit it, he envied her the talent. "Why are you so sad?" he asked softly, and he didn't touch her because if he did he would believe her. Derek felt strongly like he shouldn't believe her anymore._

_It was easier said than done when she turned her face towards him, and her small nose almost brushed his. Almost, but not quite. It was enough to make his throat lumpy. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears, the gray of her irises muddled by the redness of her misery. Her chin trembled, and she did something funny with her lips. She looked away again, but she didn't turn away. Her eyes dropped to his throat or the collar of his unadorned white shirt. He wasn't sure, but he felt like she was a million miles away, like she was a woman who remembered things that were best forgotten. She seemed like someone who had known loss. And Derek knew loss when he saw it. He knew it, but he refused to believe it. _

"_Do you have children?" she asked suddenly, her gaze darting to his. The look in her eyes was intense and haunted._

_Derek didn't understand. He met her stare evenly and shook his head. _

"_Why?" She sounded genuinely surprised as if it was ridiculous that he had been married for a little less than a decade and he hadn't had any children. _

_He shrugged, seeming aloof when every inch of him was aware of her – her eyes, her lips, her hair, her thigh that kept rubbing against him. "I had neither the time nor the inclination," came the offhand reply. _

"_Oh," she muttered, and he thought he sensed a hint of disappointment in that soft breathy sound. _

"_Do you think you had any?" he inquired cautiously._

_There was a beat of utter silence that left her eyes wetter than they had been before. She looked on the verge of sobbing, but she smiled, a false, thin, beautiful smile. "No," she whispered. "No, I don't think so." She sniffled and leaned against his chest, laying her head on his shoulder as innocently and unassumingly as a child. Her arms slipped around his torso and got tucked away warmly between his back and the sofa. She pressed her face to his neck and snuggled impossibly close to him. _

_He was turned on and uncomfortable with the arrangement, but his arms surrounded her, holding her as close as she coveted to be. _

_They sat there in the tentative silence of a rainy night with the fire roaring in the hearth. They sat for a long time. It felt like hours later that he tilted his head downwards and spoke with his lips pressed to the crown of her head, "You realize how badly I need a cold shower, right?" he joked lightly and felt her laugh softly against him. _

_She raised her head and smiled into his eyes before leaning closer and pressing her lips to his in a soft, slow kiss – one that he tried to deepen. His efforts were rewarded for all of ten seconds as her hand covered his cheek and her lips parted just barely against his, and then she pulled away and slipped off his lap. _

"_Cruel," he accused her with a mock frown as he too came to his feet. _

_The smile she flashed at him was both amused and sorrowful. He felt like apologizing but didn't know what for. "Jesus, you look like someone just killed your dog," he drawled on a frustrated breath, walking around the table to stand beside her. His words brought more tears to her eyes, and Derek felt helpless in the face of the unknown. Raising his hands tentatively to her face, he caught it, cradling the back of her head as though it were something precious. He forced the collision of their gazes and stared her down. "What aren't you telling me?" he whispered urgently, his eyes fervently searching her distraught features. "What's your story?"_

_She didn't shy away from his touch or flinch at the brutal honesty of his gaze or the desperation in his voice. She stared straight back at him, her gray eyes grieving, her small nose puffy, and she sniffled. "I don't know my story," she whispered steadily. "There's nothing to tell."_

_He let her go then and stepped away from her. "Alright."_

"What's your story?" Cristina asked loudly, her hand closing over a shot-glass of unadorned tequila. Carrying it quickly to her lips, she downed the gist in one swallow sans wincing.

Meredith emulated her, clasping her own shot of tequila – the fifth of its kind – and tipping it against her lips. "I… popped a glove today," she confided with a slur, slamming the small glass on her living room table and proceeding to fill it up again. "My nail cut riiiiiiiiiiiiight through, and I… I was holding a heart. A freaking heart," she emphasized, her eyes comically widening, but Cristina already knew _that_ story, as did the entire hospital. She had confessed her faux pas to Richard Webber and had been sent home like a reprimanded child until they could figure out a proper course of action. She sucked the drink dry and treated herself to another, attempting to offer Cristina one that the other woman declined with a firm shake to her curly-haired head.

"That… that I already know," Cristina drawled with great disinterest, inserting an appropriate eye roll. "What's your _real_ story?" she persisted.

She nodded her blond head as if she understood exactly what her friend was talking about. "I also got a phone call today," she imparted in a conspiratorial whisper that was absurdly loud in the large empty townhouse. George and Izzie were on duty until the next morning, for which she was glad – drunkenly so.

Cristina had stopped drinking and looked considerably more sober as her dark eyes narrowed in question. "From whom?" she pried.

Meredith laughed, and the sound was so bitter it snapped her out of her haze for a split-second. The moment of sobriety disappeared as quickly as it had flashed across her features. "From Derek Shepherd," she admitted, still giggling ridiculously. Foregoing the glass, she grabbed the bottle by the neck and took a thirsty swig out of its uncapped mouth.

"Derek Shepherd?" Cristina repeated, her brow furrowing in a confused frown. "I've heard that name before."

"Of course you have," the inebriated blond said with a frown as if not knowing Derek Shepherd was a grievance against humanity. "Everybody knows Derek Shepherd, neurosurgeon extraordinaire." She waved one slender hand with an ungraceful flourish.

"Derek Shepherd neurosurgeon extraordinaire." Cristina's frown was bordering on frantic now. "Derek Shepherd as in Derek Shepherd murdered Addison Montgomery, Derek Shepherd?" she murmured incredulously, her eyebrows perched so high on her brow Meredith thought they would disappear into her hairline.

Pointing an unsteady finger at Cristina's nose, she grinned. "Bingo! That Derek Shepherd."

Cristina stared at her for minutes, speechless, her mouth hanging open in an utterly disenchanting pose. Then she shook her head in something that looked a lot like denial. "There's no way… What the hell… Why would Derek Shepherd call you?" she sputtered finally.

The finger that had been hovering before Cristina's face now went to Meredith's lips, pressing against them urgently as her frowning eyes turned gravely serious. "Shhhh! Nobody can know!" she hissed, her gaze darting about the empty living room with absurdly misplaced caution. "He's wanted," she whispered.

"I know. I know that Derek Shepherd is wanted, Meredith!" she snapped. "How do you know him?"

"I…"

The ringing doorbell prematurely ended their conversation. Meredith grimaced as she came to her feet, giving Cristina an apologetic look. Her steps were quick but unbalanced, and when she finally reached the door she didn't bother to check who her midnight visitor was. Wrapping her hand solidly about the handle, she turned it and pulled the wooden door open forcefully.

Mark Sloan wore a somber startled expression on the other side of the door, but his grave face broke into a slight grin at the sight of her disheveled appearance. "Doctor Grey," he greeted her in a low humorous voice.

She blinked at him as if she believed that giving her squinting eyes a good rub would make him disappear. "Mark… I mean Doctor Sloan." The words were a jumbled mess that certified her drunkenness.

"I've been trying your phone and your pager, but…" he stopped and tilted his head to the side as he allowed his gaze to swing from her bare feet to her tangled golden hair. "I can see why you're not answering," he observed with an indulgent smile.

Her foggy mind refused to wrap around his presence. "I…"

"I just thought you'd want to know that your patient pulled through. She's alive and well, and your glove incident had nothing to do with her flat-lining post-op," he explained, watching the relief register in her eyes.

For a moment too brief, she looked sober. "Thanks," she whispered, pressing both her hands to her flushed cheeks.

"That doesn't mean you should go around popping gloves either," he teased, giving her a killer grin.

Even drunk, she was immune to Mark Sloan's charm. "Yeah."

"Too soon to joke about it?" he wondered worriedly.

"It's ah-alright. I have to…" She pointed in the vague direction of the living room. "I have a friend over for drinking… talking… drinking and talking," she rectified sheepishly.

"It looks like more drinking than talking. That's my kind of party." He winked at her but made no move to invite himself to 'his kind of party'.

"She's doing more talking than drinking," she complained with a critical frown, the words slipping past her lips unchecked.

Mark laughed at that, his amusement apparent in the way his light blue eyes sparkled. "I'll leave you two to it then. Goodnight, Meredith… I mean Doctor Grey," he said warmly, his eyes alight with humor. He was making fun of her.

Meredith frowned, about to devise the perfect retort to that, but he had already pulled the door shut. A moment later she heard his car's engine grumble to life, and he sped away.

Displeased with the events of their meeting, she ambled back to the living room to find Cristina staring at her raptly. The cheater wasn't half as drunk as Meredith.

"Meredith, sit down and tell me all about Derek Shepherd."

The metaphorical cat was out of the imaginary bag.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! **

**And please don't hesitate to leave your thoughts (whatever they may be) as they do a lot to help me through rough patches and major blocks. **


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: Still don't own anything. Tragic, I know.

Author's Note: This was really as fast as I could go with this update. I worked on it a little everyday, and well it is long-ish so I hope that makes up for the delay. Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews; I so appreciate them and love reading them. I'm glad I've managed to retain some of my readers, but also extremely sad I've lost many along the way. sigh Oh well, the life of a bad updater... Anyway this chapter is kind of angsty, kind of heavy, but it's a must. We'll get back to the lighter (as light as it gets with this fic anyway) stuff very soon. Things will be taking an unexpected turn soonish. I hope you enjoy this!

**Chapter 19  
**"I cannot wake up in the morning  
Without you on my mind.  
So you're gone and I'm haunted,  
And I bet you are just fine.  
Did I make it that easy to walk right in and out of my life?"  
Almost Lover – A Fine Frenzy

* * *

She did this _thing_. She liked referring to it as a thing because acknowledging it as something that was more than a _thing_ would make her doubt her sanity.

As Doctor William Tray, Seattle Grace's head of neurosurgery, approached Mister Levangie's skull with a surgical drill, she imagined Derek standing in his shoes. He stood tall and broad-shouldered, cloaked in a pale blue surgical gown. The only thing of his attire that belonged to him was the worn pair of Puma tennis-shoes, the same ones he'd worn the last time she had seen him. Derek's deep azure eyes narrowed over his scrub mask. "Alright Mister Levangie, this is going to sound really scary, but you won't feel a thing," he promised in a quiet soothing voice.

The man on the table tensed visibly, and his eyes darted about in frantic search for something from which he could draw a semblance of comfort. "Where's blondie?" he rasped, and Meredith stepped into his line of vision immediately.

"Right here," she smiled behind the surgical mask, hoping he could read the reassuring nature of that gesture from her eyes.

"Anything goes wrong here, I'm blaming you," he warned, but his creased eyes were more admiring than anything – and trusting.

She reached over and gave his larger hand a warm lingering squeeze, silently praying she had made the right decision in convincing him that DBS was his best chance at leading a normal life. She didn't think she could live with the guilt of having misled a patient. Gently laying his hand back on the sterilized table, she focused her wandering attention on the attending surgeon and made believe that the locks of hair curling beneath his standard scrub cap were dark and curly.

Her fantasy Derek glanced up long enough for his eyes to twinkle at her in a short-lived smile as if they shared an inside joke to which no one else was privy.

He worked patiently and thoroughly for hours, but with enough energy to keep everyone around him buzzing with life, attuned to the hypnotic beep that echoed the patient's heartbeat. He urged her to step closer, and she imagined him smiling with deeply felt amusement as she hesitated, taking baby steps that left her hovering cautiously at his side. His broad shoulder tilted backwards to offer her a better view. She watched, completely enthralled by the complex procedure, until finally the shaking wrought by Parkinson's disease stopped.

And it was over. Her _thing_ was over.

Dunking her arms into the scrub sink, she let the warm water wash away the golden soapsuds and smiled privately at the tearful look of gratitude on Mister Levangie's face. The brief elation that came from saving a life always left her a little bit breathless with exhilaration.

A soft chuckle erupted beside her, startling her out of her thoughts. She looked up sharply, half-expecting to find Derek, amused and leaning against the nearest wall, watching her. Instead, Doctor William Tray grinned at her as he pulled his scrub cap off and ruffled his dark blond hair. He looked nothing like Derek, and the notion depressed her beyond reason.

"You did great work today, Doctor Grey," he told her warmly, kind brown eyes smiling in her direction.

"Thank you. That was amazing," she remarked with raw honesty.

His grin turned full-fledged, flaunting its charming force at her. "It was," he agreed and looked away like he was gathering the courage to do something forward. "We should celebrate," he said suddenly. _Something forward, indeed_. "How do you feel about Joe's?" There was something casual about his tone that completely belied the look in his eyes. He was as tall as she remembered Derek to be but not quite as well built. His sideburns didn't make her want to press her lips to the fuzzy line where they ended.

Meredith averted his hopeful gaze, feeling incredibly unhealthy in her infatuation with Derek Shepherd. "I have plans tonight," she lied, attempting a smile that turned into an uncomfortable grimace.

"Oh, then maybe tomorrow…" but she was shaking her head before he could finish that suggestion. "Oh," he realized. "I'm sorry. That was probably incredibly stupid of me. You're already seeing someone," he surmised presumptuously.

With the celibacy she'd been practicing since her alleged return from the dead, she might as well have been married. There was no other logical reason she would turn the handsome doctor down. She let him believe it and smiled apologetically.

He looked at her for a moment longer than he should have, and she almost blurted out the truth to the disappointment in his chocolate-brown eyes. As if sensing the inappropriateness he'd exhibited, he glanced at his shoes – Reeboks that weren't Derek's. "I should, ah," he pointed at the door awkwardly.

"Yeah, me too." Sidestepping him, she darted out of the scrub room, down the hallway and into the elevator in one fluid hasty motion. When she reached what she and Bailey's four other interns had dubbed _the tunnel_, she found Cristina lounging on a gurney, sneaker-clad feet crossed at the ankles, dark curly hair held up in what could pass for a ponytail. She came to a slow tentative stop at her side and sighed, knowing that it was time she owned up to _that_ confrontation.

Cristina didn't mince words. "When you drink, you go all out." Her voice was a mixture of amusement and boredom – more boredom, less amusement. "You passed out before you could tell me about Derek Shepherd last night," she added slowly, the unspoken question lingering heavily in the air.

Meredith felt faint and suffocated in the ominous silence that engulfed them at the sound of his name. "Crap," she muttered, which was a colossal understatement. Last night, she'd gotten unapologetically drunk. The elusive memories she'd managed to recollect were centered on the image of his indigo blue eyes, smoldering with desire or cool with disdain or alight with perceived humor. What she remembered was that those very images were usually followed by a shot of her preferred poison. Under the disguise of drowning the sorrow of popping a glove during surgery, she had allowed herself the luxury of getting inebriated – hopelessly so. She wouldn't deny that her surgical blunder had played a significant role in driving her back into the arms of one very traitorous Jose Cuervo, but mainly it had been Derek's unexpected phone call, the way he'd breathed heavily into the phone as if he'd just been sitting there listening to her. As if he, too, was thinking about her incessantly. When in reality, she suspected Derek was doing nothing of the sort. He was more likely to be sipping spirits and laughing as he freely roamed the streets of somewhere far away. The unrestrained consumption of the amber liquid had done little to dull her memories of Derek Shepherd. She found that the drunker she got, the more in touch with herself she felt, and the more vivid her recollections of him became – the way his eyes became a little bit darker after he kissed her, the indulgent smiles he flashed at her when she did something he found amusing, the husky timbre of his voice as it rasped against her skin. And then Cristina had asked, and she'd said his name. There had been no going back after that, not that she'd had any inclination to go back on it last night. It had been a terrible mistake, one that she feared was irrevocable. After all, Cristina wasn't one to back down.

"Meredith?" Impatient with her reticence, Cristina was propped up on her elbows now, the chart she'd been perusing propped against her side as she stared Meredith down.

Pressing a hand to her forehead where a renewed ache that painfully resembled her hangover began to throb, she walked to the end of the gurney and sat next to Cristina's feet. "I shouldn't," she protested, but her tone was unconvincing, her vehemence doubtful.

Expertly ignoring her, Cristina sat up straight, pulled her feet towards her and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. She seemed so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that Meredith was startled when she began talking. "I've been thinking of the reasons you would know Derek Shepherd or talk to him. The only thing I could come up with, the only thing that made sense to me…" she paused and looked sideways as if what she was about to propose was ridiculous. "I hope you're not doing something stupid like talking to Derek Shepherd to get ahead. I mean I know he's brilliant – _was_ brilliant would be more accurate at this point. But Meredith, even _you_ are not that desperate. How did you even get a hold of him? And why is he okay with this? Did he try to contact your mother? I'm sure they knew each other. All great doctors do. Seriously, Meredith, dark and twisty is one thing, but this is insane!" she hissed.

"Cristina!" she exclaimed, trying to control the sudden urge to giggle childishly. _Talking to Derek Shepherd to get ahead_. That was the most preposterous thing she'd ever heard. He would probably laugh too, maybe quieter with his eyes crinkling at the sides and not quite shining but glinting with something that was friends with amusement. He would wink at her and mouth something dirty because that was what Derek knew. He knew how to make light of things that mattered to her. He'd kiss her, and she wouldn't think anything of his tendency to deftly step past any opportunity to expose himself. "I'm not talking to him to… get ahead," she reassured her baffled friend with a tickled smile.

"You better start talking, Meredith. This is not very funny," Cristina said seriously, her dark eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Her head was beginning to pound crazily, but she knew there was no escaping the explanation. She wasn't as accomplished a liar as Derek whom she was angry with half the time and smitten with the other half. "You can't tell a soul," Meredith warned on a slow breath. "No one," she emphasized, giving her a pointed look.

"Just spit it out," Cristina prodded eagerly.

Drawing in a deep breath, she scooted backwards until she could rest her back against the wall and shut her eyes wearily. "He saved my life," she breathed the confession with surprising ease as if it had been bubbling to the surface for a while. The brick that had taken permanent residence on her chest eased off slightly. Perhaps talking did merit all the claims that it was therapeutic.

Cristina's puzzled frown did something entirely foreign to her usually confident stare. "What do you mean he saved your life?"

"The day of my mother's funeral, I drove off and got lost. I'd only been to Seattle once before – that I can remember anyway. I was sad and angry at her for not telling me she was dying. I had an accident…"

"And got amnesia, I know that part," Cristina interrupted with an irritated wave of her hand.

"There was no church," she said softly.

"No church?" The incredulous voice echoed inappropriately in the narrow hallway.

She nodded as if to reaffirm the make-believe nature of that church. "There was Derek. He found me and…"

"Fixed you up," Cristina finished with disbelief. "You were _with_ him. All that time, you were with Derek Shepherd, somewhere in Seattle," she murmured, the pieces of a puzzle that had originally baffled her falling into place.

"Yes," Meredith confirmed.

"You just lived there with him?" she repeated, more to herself than to Meredith, but her tone was heavy with incredulity. "Where did he live? Was it like an underground hole?" she asked.

The impression drew a cautious smile on Meredith's grim lips. There was nothing about Zachary Preston's cottage in the woods that resembled underground burrows. "It was more like a cabin on a very nice piece of land," she answered fairly.

Cristina was relentless. "Is he as good as they say he is? He's like a legend. The genius brain surgeon gone mad and murdered his wife," she prattled.

"He didn't murder her," Meredith interjected immediately, surprised by her own vigor in defending him. She blushed furiously under the speculative look in Cristina's dark brown eyes.

"Didn't he?" she wondered rhetorically, black eyebrows raised high in astonishment.

"No, he didn't. It was a setup," she retorted confidently.

"Meredith." It was a short but resigned sigh that said she had decided to humor the other woman for the moment.

Unappeased by the reprimand, Meredith straightened and crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive stance. "I'm serious, Cristina. What do you know anyway?" she snapped.

"What the rest of the world knows," Cristina replied with quiet resolve. "He murdered her because she left him for Mark Sloan," she recited from memory.

"He's not a murderer, Cristina. He's kind and gentle, and he would never intentionally harm anyone. Besides by that time, he didn't care about her enough to murder her. I don't think he ever did – care enough that is. He's just not that type. You know?" Meredith looked over at her, blue-gray eyes haunted and desperate. Desperate to make her a believer in Derek Shepherd's innocence. Desperate to deny the truth in her very own words. He was not _that type_. He was not the type that cared.

"Oh," and the sound was so soft it almost didn't belong to Cristina.

"Oh? What's that supposed to mean?" The blond frowned with chagrin.

The beginnings of a highly amused smile were twitching at the corners of Cristina's lips. "You have a _thing_ for him." It was a statement rather than a question.

The _things_ she had for Derek Shepherd were humiliating, undeniable and not something she was about to admit to her mocking friend. "I do not have a… _thing_ for him or whatever," she sputtered.

Cristina laughed at that. "This is really bad."

Meredith's frown deepened. "What's bad?"

"You, Derek Shepherd, in a cabin alone, your feelings…" she drifted off thoughtfully, and when her gaze slipped back to Meredith's it was full of undisguised realization. "You slept with him!"

"I didn't," she lied weakly.

"You're a very bad liar. You know how I know you're a liar? Because I'm a liar."

Resigned to the collapse of her poorly built façade, Meredith was somewhat relieved to admit the truth. "He's just so…"

Grinning suggestively, Cristina swung her legs over the edge of the gurney and kicked back and forth like a tightly wound child. "Persuasive, I'm sure," she supplied, coffee-brown eyes gleaming in her smooth face.

Blushing was not something that Meredith Grey did often, but the image of how _persuasive_ he could be had her flushing hotly. "Cristina!" she griped.

With characteristic wickedness, Cristina let her voice drop an octave and said, "And probably very very horny."

"That's not funny," Meredith mumbled under her breath. She could almost hear his husky whispers of denial when she'd accused him of sleeping with her because _he hadn't done that in a long time_. His eyes had lit with fiery intent and he'd bent low over her to kiss her smiling lips.

"It's funny," Cristina insisted, her manner jubilant like she was enjoying her time immensely. "So why did he call you? Rendezvous?" she teased.

Meredith leveled a glare at her. "Cristina, this is serious."

"I know. It's dead serious. Literally," she added as an afterthought.

She ignored the disguised meaning of Cristina's sarcastic words. "He didn't say anything when he called."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," she echoed.

"How'd you know it was him?"

She sighed in barely concealed frustration. The soft sound of his breathing had crept into her dreams, haunting her with the illusion of him. She would know the sound of that anywhere. The quiet whisper of his even breaths had lulled her to sleep for countless rainy nights. "I just… I knew, okay?" she said shortly, tugging a hand through the loose tendrils of golden hair framing her face.

For several precious seconds, Cristina was quiet, but the words she spoke next twisted Meredith's heart with dread. "You lied for him," she stated without preamble.

And really such an observation warranted no introductions. It was glaringly obvious in a way that made Meredith want to blush again or hide or both. She had lied for him without qualms, and he hadn't even asked her to. The truth was that she couldn't stomach the thought of leading the authorities onto his trail. Derek Shepherd behind bars was an occurrence she wanted to avoid at all costs because as lifeless as she felt most days, the image of that made her feel dead. "I couldn't tell on him," she confessed in a hushed voice. "He wants me to, but I can't."

"That's incredibly stupid, Meredith," Cristina scolded her non-too-gently. "Who else knows this? Does Mark Sloan? Is that why he's here and hanging onto your every word like a lovesick teenager?" she asked, appropriately rolling her eyes at the plastic surgeon's ridiculous behavior.

"No, of course he doesn't know. That was just an unforeseen twist of fate meant to make my life even crappier." The smile she flashed at Cristina was derisive and devoid of all traces of humor.

Cristina nodded. "Tell me, from the beginning, how it happened, what happened, what's he like and when the hell did you fall for him?"

Her beeping pager was a blessing that made it easy to ignore Cristina's endless questions. The last one had her wishing she could throttle someone. She hadn't fallen for him. She was just suffering a minor case of withdrawal as one was prone to do after getting a persistent dosage of something and then having that something ripped away. Yes, that was precisely it. Withdrawal from an addiction. She was a recovering Derek Shepherd junkie. The thought made her smile in self-mockery before she promised to fill Cristina in on everything – later, at Joe's.

Rushing through the hallway, she climbed the stairs quickly to answer the summons of Mark Sloan.

--

Derek Shepherd rolled the mouthful of scotch around his tongue, letting the cool liquid linger in the crevices of his mouth before he swallowed it without flourish. It tasted new and tangy, a far cry from the fine brands of scotch he'd been served during his glory days as the leading neurosurgeon in the country. Still there was something entirely reviving about the Latin music blaring from invisible speakers and the pink, orange and green decorations that littered everything from the ceiling to the long rectangular bar. It almost made it easier to ignore the fact that the scotch he was drinking seemed completely characterless.

He cracked a barely visible smile when Paul walked past him, his long arm draped around the waist of a shapely brunette whose hips were shaking admirably to the beat. Paul winked at him in a way that was strictly Paul: playful, suggestive and miserable. It said he was enjoying himself, but he would much rather be somewhere else. It pretty much described the state Derek was in, except he wasn't exactly enjoying himself. He was trying to embroil himself in something that seemed well beyond his years. Barely an hour into the raucous party, he felt old and bored.

The bartender smiled at him as she slid another tumbler of single-malt scotch towards him. She served it on the rocks. Derek appreciated how chilly it felt on his tongue, but he was tempted to criticize their taste in brands. Reigning in the urge, he gave a small nod before curling his fingers about the transparent glass and tipping it against his lips, grateful at least for the partial numbness that came with intoxication.

"You, tall, dark and handsome," said a feminine voice, rising above the loud music.

He spun around fairly slowly, not piqued by the forward come-on. He didn't smile when he came face to face with a gorgeous woman whose flawless olive-toned skin and dark almond-shaped eyes basked vainly in the incandescent lights. The sparkling eyes slipped over him with undisguised appreciation, traveling down his midnight blue shirt and dark blue jeans and back up again until they met his jaded gaze. "You speak English," he stated the obvious with little enthusiasm and swirled the ocher liquid around the cup for distraction. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled and tucked into the dents of his elbows, baring his forearms to the warm night, and he'd left the top couple of buttons undone for the sake of casualty. This was no tie-affair.

Her eyes lingered on the opening of his shirt for an inordinate amount of time. "I do," she agreed finally, meeting his bemused eyes again with hers. She was unabashed and unapologetic. "I'm surprised you've lasted this long," she remarked, smiling at him wistfully.

Derek frowned quizzically and sipped what passed for scotch in this country. "Lasted this long?" he repeated on an inflection.

"Without a… companion," she explained.

This brought a small smile to his lips and he allowed his own gaze to trail over her shapely body. She was wearing the top of a bikini in a range of colors that complimented the decorations and hip-hugging denim cutoffs that ended much sooner than he'd anticipated. There was little left to the imagination. He raised his eyebrows at her attire but didn't say anything as he leaned back against the bar. "Who said I'm without a _companion_?" he challenged, mocking her use of the word.

"I've been watching you since you walked in about an hour ago. Many have looked, but none have dared to touch." The heavy suggestion in her voice was amusing. She, apparently, was the one who was going to dare to touch.

Three years ago, he would have laughed. "And what makes you think I'm approachable?" he drawled.

A funny look twisted her Latin features. "Aren't you all?"

"Who are we?" he asked, cocking an arrogant eyebrow in question.

"Men," came the simple reply.

"Ah, we're a stereotype," he observed, unimpressed.

She shrugged. "Would you like to dance with me?" she offered, hazel eyes full of promise.

"I don't dance," he declined readily.

Blatantly attractive and confident enough to manipulate her finer qualities, she smiled sinfully and winked before walking towards him. "Maybe not on the dance floor," she whispered, her posture spelling innuendo.

She was much too close for it to be proper, but Derek didn't particularly care. She smelled like vodka and orange juice, a scent that carried absolutely no memories. It had been a long time since he'd been approached by a woman. In Seattle, he'd had to do all the chasing – subtle as it was – until Meredith Grey finally gave in to the inevitable. He scowled when the thought of her invaded his mind, but immediately grinned in an effort to thwart the memory with vibrant colors and new scents and glossy dark hair. "Definitely not on the dance floor," he delivered smoothly, edging off the bar until he was standing straight, his nose level with her forehead.

She didn't hesitate as she laid her hand palm-down on his stomach, stroking him through the thin cotton of his shirt. Her fingers slipped around his side to his back. She stepped even closer until her body was touching his almost everywhere. With her other hand, she pulled his head towards her and covered his lips with hers. There was no softness to the caress, only pure overt lust. Her tongue did interesting things in his mouth, and her hands touched everything on his torso before traveling down past the waistband of his worn jeans. He caught them fiercely before they reached their target and held them at his side with one strong hand as his mouth continued to move across hers, tasting and feeling and waiting for something that didn't come. Like the scotch, her kiss had no character.

He wrenched his lips away and released her hands.

Her eyes were even darker than before, and she looked fairly dazed and utterly aroused. "Do you do everything as well as you kiss?" she whispered naughtily, her eyebrows raised, her hands poised to cover his chest again.

He smirked conceitedly and moved aside, out of her reach. "I'm afraid you won't be finding out tonight." He tried to sound regretful but failed miserably. The surprise and disappointment on her face did little to soothe his raging instincts. His most basic inclinations were furious for refusing the tempting offer. His mind was furious, but the dominant part of him wouldn't relent. He couldn't – not today. Maybe tomorrow.

"You're serious," she realized incredulously.

"We're not all the same," Derek said evenly as if that was the reason he'd said no to uncomplicated sex.

Her eyes searched his features pensively, and then she pursed her lips like one who had reached a decision and was pleased with it. "I could never tell with the sullen ones or the taken ones. And I don't mean physically taken. I mean taken in the heart." She touched the bare patch of skin over her heart to demonstrate. "Taken in the mind," she continued, her drifting fingers lingering at her temple. "Which are you?" she asked curiously.

He pondered the question for longer than he liked to admit but created a diversion of fishing for his wallet. When he found it and produced enough bills to cover his tab, he smiled again, and it was an act of sheer will. "Sullen," he replied with an edge as he tossed the money on the shiny surface of the bar. The bartender's hand immediately covered the bills before she pocketed them. He spared the woman facing him one last look and stepped past her.

She was almost behind him when he heard her mutter softly, "I beg to disagree."

Derek pretended not to hear her and walked away.

--

Nancy Shepherd glanced at her slender wristwatch as she reached for the doorbell to the posh Manhattan apartment. The pad of her index finger lingered indefinitely on the concave white button, and she wished for a stroke of intuition. Shutting her eyes forcefully, she counted the reasons why this was the right thing to do. Three things came to mind. The first was that despite her erroneous judgments and unwarranted cruelty, Sophia Shepherd was her mother. The second was that her sisters had cornered her in what they liked to refer to as a family "intervention"; they had made her promise that she would reconcile with her estranged mother. The third was that Derek seemed to have disappeared, and Zachary Preston claimed he hadn't heard from him since the escape. She liked Zack well enough. But she knew that when it came to Derek he would go to many lengths to protect him even if it meant lying to Derek's sister whose faith was dangerously slipping.

Shelving those thoughts, she heaved a tremulous breath, glanced at her watch which told her she'd been hesitating for five minutes and pushed the button. She heard the classic ring through the intricately designed wooden door before it swung open, revealing the harried housekeeper – another new one. Sophia really couldn't seem to keep one for longer than six months.

"Hello Ms, how can I help you?"

Well, she was pleasant enough, Nancy thought with an internal smile. Derek had teased Sophia mercilessly on the so-called wrongs of her maids. One of them had been fired because she couldn't seem to stop staring at him whenever he visited. She would linger at the door to the living room, her eyes constantly straying to the arm chair he usually occupied, and when he would speak to her, she would stutter like a schoolgirl. Sophia had been furious with her "lust" and had told her to "stop devouring her son with her eyes" before unceremoniously informing her that she was fired. Derek had been sorry. She suspected that he continued to pay her himself because he'd felt guilty for costing her the job. "I'm here to see Sophia. Is she inside?"

The young woman's forced smile faltered. "I – uhm – I will…"

"Don't worry, she doesn't get angry if you let in unannounced family members," she interrupted with a reassuring smile. Poor girl looked like she was about to faint. "I'm Nancy Shepherd."

"Oh!" she gasped, covering her lips with a nervous hand, flustered at her mix-up. "Of course, I apologize. Mrs. Shepherd is in the living room with Miss Rebecca," she said, ushering Nancy into the parlor.

"Good," Nancy murmured more to herself than to the fluttery maid. She predicted that would be the reason for the demise of her job at the Shepherd residence. "So what's _your_ name?" she asked conversationally, her lips twisting in self-derision at the attempt to stall the unavoidable.

"I'm Mary, Ms," Mary replied, uncomfortable with the overture. She had been told not to chatter about herself with guests.

Nancy shook her head and gave her a small smile before surging past the kitchen and the salon. She walked into the sunbathed living room confidently with her chin held as high as Sophia had taught her to hold it as a child.

The older woman was busy peering through the eyeglasses perched low on her nose at her familiar black leather appointments book. Rebecca was primly seated in the arm chair closest to the large couch Sophia had availed herself of. They both looked up at her entrance. Her mother studied her over the rims of her reading glasses and very slowly shut her book – an acknowledgment if Nancy had ever seen one. Rebecca's bright eyes widened and dimmed, and she seemed to shrink into her seat like a petrified child.

"Nancy," Sophia greeted her coolly, blue eyes assessing and expectant in her wrinkled face. She reached for her eyeglasses, slipped them off and folded them quietly.

For a woman in her seventh decade of life, she was astoundingly beautiful. "Sophia," Nancy echoed her unaffected tone, turning her attention to her youngest sister. "Hello Rebecca."

"Hello," Rebecca replied meekly, never one for confrontations. The youngest of the Shepherd clan, Rebecca was unequivocally their mother's favorite child. Sophia doted on her and kept her close, which Nancy assumed was the reason why Rebecca never seemed inclined to marry.

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Sophia wondered aloud.

"You know why I'm here mother," Nancy replied calmly.

"Won't you sit, Nancy? Mary will bring you a Martini, dry just the way you like it." She began to reach for the bell that summoned her ever-changing maids, but Nancy stopped her.

"I don't want a drink," she said tightly.

Thin stenciled eyebrows climbed Sophia's brow. "You certainly look like you could use one," she observed haughtily.

Bristling silently, Nancy pursed her lips and swore she wouldn't lose her temper. "I'm fine," she said shortly.

"So, what is it that brings you here after…" Sophia trailed off and smiled humorlessly. "Has it been two years?" she asked.

"And a few months," Nancy informed her. "I came here to…" she faltered and swallowed the bitterness in her mouth. "Apologize," she finished. "I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you that day. You're my mother and you deserve my respect. I had no right to call you…"

"An atrocious string of words I would not like repeated in my presence," Sophia cut her off.

"Yes, I'm sorry about that," she murmured.

"But you're not sorry for _what_ you said, only for the way you said it. Perhaps if you'd said it more eloquently back then, you wouldn't be standing here trying to phrase your utter hatred for my actions as an apology."

Nancy met her stare squarely, her resolve not once flickering. "I'll _never_ forgive you for what you did. Never," she emphasized. From the corners of her eyes, she could see Rebecca stiffen. "But I'm here for the sake of family harmony. I'm willing to look past things and to apologize for my less than savory behavior, but I don't forgive you. He's your _son_, my brother, and I love him dearly. I believe in him, in his innocence more and more everyday. He loved you, and you betrayed him. And what for? What the hell for? You can't tell me you believe he would harm the woman he spent the better part of his adult life married to."

"Is that why he escaped?" Sophia posed sardonically, but beneath her icy façade she was livid and poisonously angry.

"He escaped because he can't _stand_ that hellhole," Nancy seethed. She pulled her shaky hands through her hair. This was precisely why she'd been avoiding her mother for the last two years. She had foreseen this argument and the anger and frustration it would wreak on her.

"Innocent men don't run away from justice," Sophia argued.

"You see that's where you're wrong. Derek ran away from _in_justice."

"We don't speak his name in this household," she shrilled ominously, vibrant eyes narrowed to near slits as she glared a warning at her daughter.

Not heeding the unspoken command, Nancy forged ahead. "Derek _bought_ this household," she reminded her harshly.

The long silence that ensued was a battle of wills that ended with Sophia reopening her agenda. "Your apology is accepted, Nancy," she intoned dismissively as she reseated her thick reading glasses on her nose.

"That's it? My apology is accepted?"

She looked up with mock surprise. "Why, yes. Did you expect me to scold you like a child? You're way past that age, darling. In a year or two, you'll be shooting Botox into your forehead."

Nancy bit back the retort on her tongue. Leave it to Sophia to turn the discussion of Derek's conviction to something as inane as Botox. "Your testimony sent him to prison," she uttered quietly because it had to be said. They would not have this talk again.

"His crime sent him to prison," Sophia retorted coldly. "I expect to see you at dinner on Sunday."

Dismissed, Nancy swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded. "I'll be there." That said, she bid Rebecca a silent goodbye with a halfhearted smile and turned on her heel.

* * *

Thanks for reading!


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: It's been a while but I still don't own anything. This is solely for entertainment purposes.

Author's Note: It's been an awfully long time. I'm terribly sorry for all of you who have waited on this fic for so long. I can't apologize enough. I've been working on this chapter for a couple of months. It was admittedly difficult to write, but I finally managed to write myself through it. There's quite a bit that needs to happen before this wraps up, and I assure you I won't abandon this before I've seen to its conclusion. I love this story too much to leave it hanging in the undefined realm of the unfinished. I would like to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for continuing to ask about this fic. Thank you for continuing to read. And mostly thank you for your wonderful reviews that are always an amazing motivation. Thanks!

Read on, and please enjoy!

**Chapter 20**  
"I know you didn't bring me out here to drown,  
So why am I ten feet under and upside down?  
Barely surviving has become my purpose,  
Cause I'm so used to living underneath the surface.  
If I could just see you, everything would be alright.  
If I could see you, this darkness would turn to light."  
Storm – Lifehouse

* * *

"_My name is Meredith Grey, and I have information on a fugitive."_

There was a media circus in Seattle Grace's lobby.

Under the drizzly Seattle morning, a kaleidoscope of umbrellas colored the pavement outside the hospital. Yellow seemed prevalent – a paradox of a winter color. It was sunshine and summer, beach-balls and sand, not umbrellas and rain-slickers brandished under an ominously dark sky. Oblivious to their tragedy, they bustled restlessly like ants in the scorching heat of August, eager and buzzing with life. But the doors were firmly closed to their entrance, and four men wearing _Security_ jackets stood forbiddingly between the reporters and their destination.

Two men and a woman had managed to wheedle their way into the hospital, and they circled the lobby restlessly like predators sniffing for their prey. The woman was a brunette who constantly flipped her hair from left to right, tousling the light waves to better frame her square-jaw. She wore a gray dress and purple-framed eyeglasses. Every now and then, she would murmur to her companion – possibly a cameraman whose camera was nowhere in sight – and he would nod, jerking his handsome face downwards. His eyes were as bright as the other man's eyes were dark. It was the dark-eyed one that set her on edge. Far more handsome than the athletic blond, he was the owner of quick black eyes and a stunningly white smile she'd caught him flashing at a couple of nurses.

He looked like Detective Bennett.

_The file Julian Bennett had been perusing with quick efficiency fell to the desk with a sound thud. Dark impermeable eyes narrowed on her, and he leaned back into his chair, completely relaxed. "Have a seat Miss Grey." He nodded towards an uncomfortable looking plastic chair before his cramped desk. They were in the middle of the police station, but they might as well have been alone for the intense stare he was subjecting her to. _

_She glanced at him uncertainly, never one to relish in an extreme display of attention, and then glanced at the chair as if suspicious of his intentions. But she didn't question him. Cristina was waiting outside because she'd forbidden her to listen to her confession, and Meredith had promised not to be long. With an audible sigh, she lowered herself to the chair, scooting to the far edge of it as if ready to bolt at any sign of trouble. _

"_Now, please start from the beginning, what fugitive? And what's the information you have?" he asked slowly. _

_She tried not to interpret the gleam in his eyes as an eagerness to bring said fugitive to justice. Swallowing her misgivings, she cleared her throat, steeled her heart and parted her lips. For several seconds, she couldn't speak, but the letter she'd found on her doorstep last week flashed before her eyes and it became easier. Someone had seen them in the cottage, and this someone had sent her a letter – a threat. Derek would have wanted this. He had told her to do this. "Derek Shepherd," she whispered. _

"_What do you know about Derek Shepherd?"_

And she had told him much of everything, leaving out the part where she fancied herself a little bit infatuated with the notorious neurosurgeon. She had omitted snaps of kisses in the dark, hands under his navy blue sheets and white wine after dinner. Tipsy kisses and making love on the living room couch.

She had told on him, and the world wanted to know what she had said.

The world wanted to hail her bravery, and she wanted to disappear into her cowardice.

"Maybe you should give a statement," Cristina suggested dryly. She seemed to materialize out of nowhere as she propped her elbows beside Meredith's on the mezzanine balcony's cool silver railing and leaned forward. "It can't be that bad. As it is, they're all speculating the worst. You can give them a better scenario than criminal and hostage," she reasoned, and it all seemed very black and white when Cristina put it that way.

There was good and bad, but the truth was that she and Derek weren't black or white. They were gray and colors. They had defied the spectrum. He'd told her to tell on him. He'd _ordered_ her to tell on him, but she knew that somewhere deep inside him where Derek still had a heart, he would've wanted her to protect him. He would have liked to think that she cared enough to shelter his secret, to keep him safe. Now he would read of her betrayal – the same one he had demanded of her – and he would smile, a small bitter smile that would make his eyes harsher like flints of ice. He wouldn't say anything because he would pretend that he had expected it. And maybe he had. He would sit back, calculate the facts and plan his next move. And he would keep smiling the cruel little smile that made her heart ache because he was far too cynical to hope that there was another reason for her betrayal. He was _far_ too cynical to hope.

"Maybe," she conceded, running her index finger distractedly along the gleaming railing. The metal was cool under her fingertip.

"You had to," Cristina said quietly, but her even words shattered what little Meredith still possessed of her composure.

She turned away from the cluttered scene, leaning heavily against the solid metallic bar. She _had_ to. Did she really? Her only comfort was that Derek was far and safe. "Yeah," she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut as she pressed a hand to her forehead. God, her head was going to explode.

"Doctor Grey," said Richard Webber's low incisive voice.

It sliced into her thoughts like an intrusive knife. She opened her eyes and found him staring her down with a concerned frown. Apparently men cared for the children of women they'd held candles for at some point in their lives. A comforting thought at best. "Chief," she smiled at him, but the expression must have been insincere because his frown deepened.

"I'm giving you the day off," he stated. His tone brooked no room for argument, and she almost sank to her knees with relief.

She wanted to wallow in her misery. "But…" she began a halfhearted protest.

"No buts, Grey. This is a hospital. There are sick people here who need peace and quiet. I haven't had any since you got here this morning."

She needed peace and quiet. "Yes, sir," she replied solemnly.

He smiled at her, and he was suddenly very fatherly and warm. She could feel Cristina hovering behind her, almost bursting with the need to make a snarky remark. "If you need anything, you know what to do."

Her nod was perfunctory. "Thank you, sir."

He reflected her nod and pressed a large hand to her shoulder. "For the love of God, Grey, throw them a bone to chew on," he advised her, his eyes pointedly snapping over the crowded sidewalks.

Smiling in faux-earnestness, she murmured an agreement and excused herself. Cristina didn't follow her as she made her way down the hallway to the elevators. She was grateful for the solace. She wished Derek would call again, but she knew that wasn't going to happen. Resigned to her fate, she stepped into the empty elevator, listening for the whoosh of the doors as they closed after her. Just as the metallic doors met, they parted again.

Mark Sloan stood tall on the other side, his prematurely gray hair unusually rumpled. He wasn't as polished as always. His expression wasn't half as smug and knowing as it usually was. He was visibly shaken, and she thought he mirrored what she looked like – shaken, exhausted and devastated. Their eyes connected for an interminable minute, his hard and accusing, hers empty.

In the utter silence of unspoken confessions, he walked into the elevator, and the cubicle was suddenly suffocating. She couldn't exist with Derek's ghosts. He was everywhere – in Mark Sloan's traitorous intentions, in Cristina's cynicism, in Alex's sarcasm. It was impossible to ignore Mark's presence beside her when she could almost feel the warmth of his shoulder beside hers. He was impossible to ignore because he knew things about Derek that she didn't. He'd known the Derek she longed to have known. Pre-prison Derek who had loved and laughed and saved lives.

"You turned white as a sheet when I told you my name," said a startlingly soft voice. He broke the silence with a hesitance that belied his character. He was unsure, unbalanced and completely thrown off his turf.

She didn't confirm his observation, but he seemed impervious to her stillness.

"I couldn't imagine why, but now I know. I understand perfectly," he muttered, staring straight ahead as if looking at her required a superhuman effort he wasn't willing to exert. "I'm sure _Doctor Shepherd_ has said an assortment of colorful things about me." And he looked at her then – sideways. He was disdainful and his eyes emphasized the accusation hurled at Derek.

She felt strangely defensive as she met his gaze with her own, surprised at the anger she discerned in his bright blue eyes.

"I know he can be very convincing, Doctor Grey, but you really shouldn't have fallen for everything he told you. He's quite adept at deception, not to mention murder. I'm glad you had the good sense to go to the police with your story though I suspect you wouldn't have if you hadn't been forced. Who or what forced you? Is he threatening you now?" His voice was icy, his glare chilling in its intensity. Behind the ferocious glower was a well of concern. He feared for her, and _that_ made her more uncomfortable than anything else.

She didn't cower under the fury of his glare. "Derek is not a murderer," she declared evenly to which he uttered a blasphemous curse borne of frustration.

The parting elevator doors put an end to anything else he would have wanted to say. She took a step towards the door to make her exit. Mark caught her arm before she could step out of the elevator. She whipped around furiously, her gaze slashing across his tortured face before landing on his hand, which was securely wrapped around her elbow.

"Meredith," he said softly, abandoning all pretenses of formality. "What have you done?"

She snatched her arm away, turned around and hurried to the locker rooms.

----

"She spilled the whole tray of Bloody Marys down the front of my white shirt," Paul Stuart finished on a hearty chuckle.

Derek grinned humorously as he tipped the bottle of imported beer against his lips. The golden liquid trickled down his throat soothingly, a taste of the past – of Seattle on the porch-steps and Meredith's lips on the mouth of his bottle. He could almost taste _her_, sweet and golden – gray eyes and tousled hair. She didn't like beer, but she liked sharing his beers. And she liked his coffee because it "added reality to her mornings". Every morning, she would smile at him with a barely suppressed wince with the first sip of his unsweetened black coffee.

"It's that look again," complained Maria Valero, dividing a frustrated petulant glare between Paul and Mario Garcia.

Paul rolled his eyes good-naturedly, glanced at Derek who was obliviously lounging on the other end of the three-seat couch and gave Mario a pointed look.

The car merchant with the warm brown eyes chuckled from the rocking chair by the window. "Derek, amigo," Mario said amiably.

Derek looked up, shaken from his thoughts. "Yeah, Mario, did you say something?" he asked.

Mario Garcia was Paul's childhood friend from Wyoming, and he was the very reason Paul had brought them to Panama. Mario was well-connected, and he held his friend in extremely high regard. There was no telling how far he would go to keep Paul safe from the authorities. But Mario came with baggage, a young family friend who worked for the sales section of his car dealership. Maria had met Paul at the dealership, and they'd become fast friends as Paul was prone to be with any other human being. Upon her insistence she began to tag along with Mario on visits to Paul's. On one of those frequent visits, she happened across Derek.

Their eyes had met and locked as Paul introduced them. She was the girl from the party whose words had kept him tossing and turning for three nights, and he was the first man who had ever turned her down. _Taken in the heart. Taken in the mind._ The words had resonated in his mind until the early hours of the dawn, but Derek _believed_ he was sullen. The alternative notion had disturbed him. And he still found himself disinclined to take Maria Valero to bed even though her eyes suggested it often. Her handshakes lingered, and later she began to greet him with kisses on his cheeks which conveniently landed in close proximity to his lips. He turned a blind eye to what he considered a passing infatuation until she started prying into his life, asking for the identity of the woman who had him so completely immersed in her that he could ignore Maria's sexual overtures – not that Mario or Paul knew anything about her blatant sexual interest in Derek. But he understood her well.

Now Derek found her glaring at him with the same dark eyes that had sized him up with appreciation. Paul and Mario wore matching amused expressions on their faces. "Well?" he asked them.

"Who was he thinking about?" Maria demanded of Paul, ignoring Derek and his confused expression.

Paul shrugged innocently and shot Derek a teasing wink. "No idea," he muttered, raising his arms in mock surrender.

Derek scowled at her, sat up straight and placed his beer on the table. "Would you like to ask me something?" His tone was full of false patience, his glare slicing as he moved it to her voluptuous form.

She crossed her legs and met his stare hesitantly – daunted by his fierce posture. "I've asked you a hundred times already," she replied defensively, looking to Paul for help. Paul raised his eyebrows and looked away, unwilling to embroil himself in whatever game they were playing.

Derek found himself a star player, but he wanted nothing to do with her games either. "It's a private matter," he said curtly, reaching again for his beer. His manner was dismissive, and she seemed infuriated. The television that murmured lightly in the background seemed loud in the silence that fell upon them.

Suddenly, Paul gave Mario a sharp look and turned towards the otherwise ignored contraption. Understanding the implications, Mario came to his feet, walked over to Maria and offered her his hand. She took it without hesitation, her expression puzzled as she was led out of Paul's apartment with barely muttered goodbyes.

"What's the matter?" asked Derek, frowning darkly.

"You have to see this."

Meredith Grey's photograph was on the screen. It wasn't the photo they'd used of her when she had returned from the dead. It wasn't Meredith in a Dartmouth sweater, smiling bashfully at the camera. This one was a candid – a recent one of her leaving Seattle Grace in a long beige coat over a purple sweater. She seemed harassed by the crowd of reporters raining upon her.

"_Police have revealed that Meredith Grey who was believed to have been taken in by a church during her amnesiac disappearance had actually been held in a cottage by escaped convict Derek Shepherd. Doctor Grey has refused to comment on the situation repeatedly, but her confession to the police has reportedly given authorities a big tip on Derek Shepherd's trail. Detective Julian Bennett, who is in charge of the case, expressed hope in apprehending Shepherd before he poses another threat to the citizens. It remains ambiguous however how Doctor Grey managed to extricate herself from her perilous situation with the escaped convict. Detective Bennett preferred to leave our questions unanswered, claiming that the information was confidential to the case and crucial to Doctor Grey's safety._

"_In other news, Seattle's fire department was forced to…"_

Paul switched the television off and turned around to face Derek whose unreadable expression made the quietness left behind almost ominous.

"They can't trace you here," Paul said finally.

The dark-haired man tipped his head in what passed for a nod and replaced his beer on the table as if the inanimate green bottle suddenly revolted him. "It's fine," he stated coldly. "That's exactly what I wanted her to do." And he smiled, a smile that transformed his features into something Paul didn't feel particularly comfortable looking at.

"I'm sorry, Shep," he murmured, his voice full of remorse because Paul would have been brokenhearted if the woman he loved turned her back on him. But Derek only shook his head and came to his feet with resolution – a man who was full of misgivings and who knew betrayal better than anyone. His sullen face looked tired but alive with cynical triumph as if his demons were happy to have been proven right. Nobody deserved his trust, and he did not believe in love.

There was something utterly devastating about his proud posture and the dead look in his blue eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous. I told her to do that. I didn't expect things to go otherwise," he said nonchalantly. "I'm going to my room. I'll see you tonight."

Paul followed him to the door, his eyes widening in surprise. "You're going to another party?" he wondered dubiously.

"Yes."

He shut the door quietly in his wake – unaffected, untouched, calm – a quiescent hurricane. Very Derek.

----

"I could just strangle her," Nancy Shepherd hissed venomously, her dark eyes narrowing dangerously on the news article she was reading. "Derek probably saved her life. You know he did, Kathy."

"Probably," Kathleen agreed, wrapping her arm around her four-year-old daughter's little body to stop her from racing across the living room and knocking one of grandma's vases to the floor – again.

"_Mommy_!" Lily burst out in complaint, looking to her brother for help. She struggled valiantly against Kathleen's arm.

Jason gave her an impish grin from his place in the arm chair Derek used to occupy every Sunday. "Mommy, does daddy know about his surprise party?" he asked in faux innocence. His blond hair made him look angelic, but his dark eyes were filled with mischief.

Nancy grinned in spite of herself.

"That's it!" Kathleen exclaimed in exasperation. She rang for Mary and the hassled maid hustled in, her apron askew. Evidently, the children were tearing up the kitchen. "Mary, will you please take Jason and Lily with you?"

The terrified maid looked ill at the prospect but nodded obediently and offered her hands to the two children who took them with eager smiles. When they disappeared through the doors to the living room, leaving Nancy and Kathleen alone, Kathleen sighed expansively. "I feel like I should be apologizing to poor Mary. They're driving her up the wall."

Nancy was too distracted to participate in the discussion over their wayward children. "She didn't even have the decency to explain the story to the press," she uttered incredulously.

"You don't know _what_ the story is, Nance," Kathleen said patiently. "Maybe Derek's better off with this story staying in the dark. I think she looks very sad," she remarked softly, looking over Nancy's shoulder at Meredith Grey's candidly snapped photo.

Ever the psychiatrist, Nancy thought to herself. "You just said you think he saved her life."

With a tortured breath, Kathleen raked her fingers through her curly hair, setting it away from her heart-shaped face. "I said it was probable, but we don't know anything for sure."

Nancy glared at her. "I know for sure," she asserted adamantly. "Her confession has put the search in full-swing again. They're searching _my_ hospital-computer files. Can you believe that?" she sputtered, clearly offended by the overture into her personal life.

"There are no limits to what a determined detective can do with a search warrant," Kathleen agreed, giving her dark head a shake. "Rebecca hasn't been feeling very well for a few days," she said suddenly, her brow furrowing in concern.

"Is that why she and Sophia have been cooped up in the study for the past hour?" Nancy asked finally closing the newspaper against Meredith Grey's delicate profile.

"It seems like she's having some sort of breakdown, but you know how protective mother is of her. She won't admit it, and she won't let me speak to Becky alone for five minutes. She thinks I'll do more harm than good."

"Typical Sophia. You have a PhD in clinical psychology, but _she's_ the expert on the topic." Nancy rolled her eyes with chagrin. Despite their reconciliation, the hostility between them was hard to breach.

Mary's arrival interrupted their conversation. Looking even more harassed than before, she apologized for his sudden arrival, and this time there was red mark on her cheek. Nancy bit the inside of her cheek to hold in a childish giggle. She hoped, for the poor girl's sake, that the children hadn't used a permanent marker. "Yes Mary? Is something the matter?" she asked the young girl.

"The twins aren't in the kitchen anymore. They're wandering somewhere in the house, and I'm worried they'll break something. Mrs. Shepherd will be furious. Can you please find them? I can't leave the children with Molly alone in the kitchen much longer," she said quickly, referring to Kathleen's babysitter, who was much too young to deal with their eight children combined.

Nancy shook her head with amusement, placed the newspaper on the table and came to her feet. "Don't worry. I'll find them."

Mary nodded and hurried back to the kitchen.

"Your boys are the most devious children in the world." Kathleen laughed.

"Michael threatens them with boarding school everyday. I know he doesn't mean it though. I don't think he can survive a day without one of their shenanigans," she told her sister, smiling fondly at the memory of her husband's empty threats.

"I know the feeling. You need any help?"

"No, I'll be fine. I know where they like to hide. I'll be back in five minutes."

With that and a final smile, Nancy set out in search of her devilish little boys. At five, they were at their most destructive since birth. She petulantly hoped they'd break something very expensive before she found them because she knew that would drive Sophia a little mad. As she passed by the study, she was halted in her tracks by the sounds of sobs. Her heart skipped a beat as she tiptoed towards the closed door and pressed her ear against it, grateful that the hallway was empty.

"I c-can't!" sobbed Rebecca.

Nancy strained her ears to hear Sophia's soft-spoken assurances. "It's alright, darling. It'll get buried again soon enough. It would still be buried if it weren't for that foolish girl." Her voice took an ugly turn at that and Rebecca's cries hitched as if someone was stroking her hair reassuringly.

"I miss Derek," Rebecca said.

"He would have wanted to protect you, too, darling."

"I didn't mean to," she whispered. "I didn't mean to. She hurt him, mother. You know she hurt him very badly?" she asked, almost sounding like a child.

Nancy's heart was racing, her mind frantic in its piecing of the puzzle.

"I know, Becky. You didn't mean to."

Rebecca's sobs had subsided. "She said she was sorry. She lied. I knew she loved Mark. I couldn't stop. I just shot her. I shot her," she said louder, and the sobs began all over again.

Nancy felt faint. She pressed a hand to her forehead, willing her eyes to stay open, willing her mind to wrap around the overwhelming revelations.

"Hey, mom!" Tom greeted her with a roguish grin.

She twirled around with her stricken face.

"We're here!" William echoed, appearing at his brother's side with an identical grin.

Nancy pushed herself away from the door and placed a hand on each of their dark heads, turning them away from the study's closed door and the ugly things inside. They were halfway down the hallway when William looked at her with an endearing frown.

"I'm sorry we were hiding, mom. We won't do it again if it makes you sad," he promised solemnly, his blue eyes – reminiscent of Derek's – studying her devastated features with concern.

"Yeah, mom," Tom agreed, his hand clasping hers obediently. He usually wrung it away if she tried to hold it.

Nancy felt herself cave and allowed a couple of tears trickle down her cheeks.

She had to talk to Zachary Preston. She had to talk to the police.

She had to bring Derek home.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Sad.

Author's Note: Hello everyone. It's been a pretty long while . I think we've established that I pretty much suck at updating. But I do always end up updating. So yay me! Okay not really. I don't deserve "yays", but I wouldn't abandon this story unless everyone stops reading because they've had enough of my unpredictable muse. I've had enough of my unpredictable muse! But I'll try to be better. Promise! I want to thank you all for your wonderful reviews. The recent ones were especially inspiring! It makes me very happy to know you enjoy reading this. So thank you so much, and I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.

Anyway, here's the very-late-in-coming new chapter. And it's a transition. Finally. I was finding it increasingly difficult to write the stalemate I had written myself into. Things are taking a step forward. They may seem rushed here, but it'll all be explained in the next chapters. I try not to leave anything unexplained because if something is in there then I've probably thought about it and it plays a role. Somehow, someway. The rushed nature is just a restriction of perspective. Can't jump from Derek's mind to Zack's to Nancy's to Becca's to Meredith's... etc. So please bear with me a little more. This is about to get a lot more interesting, I promise.

Onto the good stuff. Enjoy!

**Chapter 21**  
"I'd show a smile, but I'm too weak,  
I'd share with you could I only speak,  
Just how much this, hurts me.  
Just how much you..."  
This Time Imperfect – AFI

* * *

He folded the bills and pressed them to the counter-top of a disenchanting green vanity table, his lips twisting in a self-deprecating smile. This had gone exactly as expected, he thought derisively, smoothing the pad of his index finger along a tall thin bottle of perfume. He was certain it smelled like her – overpowering and cheap. There had been a quick perusal, a casual look from breasts to thighs and back again. He'd pretended to survey the scantily dressed women, and then he had nodded slowly at the one that smiled the least. She had tried to kiss him three times before she learned that he wasn't all for that particular display of intimacy. He was hardly in the mood to woe and romance. He was hardly in the mood to be in the presence of another human being. He was hardly in the mood for anything at all, but he'd worked himself into _this_ mood.

His icy resolve had not been shaken in the few tumultuous months since Seattle.

Tucking the rest of his money into the back pocket of his unbuttoned jeans, he looked over his shoulder. She was tidying the bed where their economical escapade had transpired – not that there was much to tidy. He'd been almost obsessively meticulous about everything, as if this was but another of his carefully laid plans. As if the monster inside him believed he could throw this back at _her_ someday, and she would care enough to be hurt. Never mind that he had pathetically envisioned her once or twice during the whole charade.

Derek fumed quietly and shoved the disconcerting truths away, focusing instead on the woman artistically rearranging the bright red pillows against the metallic headboard. He studied her with the objectivity of a connoisseur. She was taller than average, her tanned legs shapely and long. Her breasts were small, and her dark hair fell to her shoulders in dark curly strands.

He didn't remember her name.

His fingers quickly fastened the line of buttons on his jeans, and then traveled to his dark blue shirt, expertly guiding its little buttons into their matching holes. He felt a movement behind him and glanced back to find her fitting her feet into racer-red stilettos that were as blatant as her makeup.

He hadn't paid for sex in a very long time.

Smiling again in self-mockery, he tapped the money he'd left with his index finger and turned away. He reached for the door and contemplatively fastened his fingers about the dirty brass knob.

"Have a nice night," he said politely, which seemed rather inane after sex.

Her laughter was surprised and delighted, and it stopped him. "Your manners are flawless, Derek Shepherd," she remarked with genuine amusement. Her dark eyes sparkled at him with uncharacteristic curiosity. He didn't think prostitutes were particularly interested in the men who visited their beds.

He returned her unashamed stare with an easy lop-sided grin. "Thank you," he intoned.

"I'm Sandra, by the way," she said as if she had somehow divined that the insignificant detail had slipped his mind. "I can always help you when you come here," she intimated wickedly.

Nodding slightly, he turned the knob and the door fell open, an escape from the schemes of the twisted darkness inside him. "I'll keep that in mind," he said in way of parting, his words slow and deliberate, a desperate denial of the urge to flee that manifested itself in his traitorous body. He gave her one last look, one sallow smirk that made him feel emptier on the inside, and only then did he allow himself to leave. The path from the backroom to the front door was cloudy with smoke. He felt slightly sick as he navigated through a sea of swaying bodies, knowing that he wasn't likely to ever revisit the seedy bar in the shady part of town.

When he stepped out into the chilly night, he felt painfully sober. His conscience was alive and viciously ripping into him with memories he fought to suppress.

_I drank and I slept with women whose names I didn't remember. I did a lot of things I'm not proud of._

Meredith Grey had stared at him with her remarkable blue-gray eyes, looking like she wished she could make it all go away. Later that night, she had wrapped him against her like a favorite blanket and kissed his brow like a mother would to her sick child. Her lips had been warm and caressing against his skin, and he had _felt_ like a little boy, completely at the mercy of her forgiveness, her tenderness and her acceptance.

_Sometimes it's okay not to be strong. It's okay to let someone else be strong and admit that you've been dealt a losing hand. It's okay to sit down at the end of the day and let someone take care of you because you've fought through a losing hand. You've put up a fight, but you knew all along that you were going to lose. You still put up a fight, and that's what matters. You're a strong person because you put up a fight, because you fought until your last breath. _

She had spoken the words wistfully, with a well of pain he would have discerned had he known that she was no longer the amnesiac she'd claimed to be. Her quiet even voice had betrayed the longing she felt for someone who would say the same to her – reassure her that just because she had a day where she couldn't fight anymore didn't mean that she wasn't strong. There was just no one to shoulder the fight – no one to take care of her at the end of a day lost in a tragic battle. Derek had known then that he couldn't be that someone for her. He'd believed he was far too cynical to take someone as intrinsically _good_ as Meredith Grey into his keeping. For a while, he'd been content to think that they would both look back at their time together as a pleasant memory. He found himself cursing his naivety. There was little that was pleasant about remembering how well Meredith Grey had played him, how well she had lied to him. He was furious with her and with himself for not being able to rip her out of his mind. She lingered in his thoughts like an unwanted visitor who imposed her presence. He imagined himself pushing her away, physically driving her out of his thoughts, but she laughed at him mockingly because he couldn't touch her. She was light as air and quick.

She was nothing but a vision.

Driven by the darkness of his forbidding thoughts, he found himself at the gate of his building before he knew it. With a heavy sigh, he dug out his keys and unlocked the rusty blue gate. It was eerily quiet, a luxury of the post midnight hour. Taking the elevator to the fifth floor, he closed his eyes tiredly and leaned his shoulder against the bright orange plastic wall. With its habitual whining, the elevator dutifully delivered him to his floor. Derek rubbed the fatigue off his face as he shoved the cranky door open. He had barely released a tired breath when a bright flashlight was deliberately made to shine into his eyes, blinding him. His heart thudded sickly with realization before two burly bodies slammed into either side of him, shackling his arms.

"Hello, Doctor Shepherd," said a disembodied male voice he'd never heard before in a tone he knew well. "It's time to go home," the voice declared with smug victory, and that put a fight in him.

He slammed his elbow into the rigid abdomen of his left-attacker, and the man doubled over in pain.

"Holy shit, grab him," said the voice, colored with unease now.

Derek took his opening with a thirst that echoed in his blood, sending his freed fist flying in the direction of the second officer. His knuckles connected with bone and tissue and something that split. He heard a grunt and a curse, but the hold only loosened slightly before the distinct texture of a gun barrel was pressed into his back.

"I'll shoot you. You know I'd love nothing more."

He hissed furiously, mindless of the slight discomfort and was all for lunging at the offender before the butt of another gun came down on his head – hard. He had but a few moments of consciousness as the pain began to spread at lightning speed.

There were handcuffs and badges. There was a curse on his lips with Meredith Grey's name on it.

And then there was darkness.

----

They were in her living room again.

It was dark, and the rain pelted softly outside, its quiet rhythm wrapping around their entwined forms. The harsh sound of his breathing melted into the cadence of the storm, and it felt warm against her neck, alive, seductive. When his lips met her fevered skin in a soul-crushing caress, she made a small sound in the back of her throat and arched her neck towards him, trapping his face between cheek and shoulder. Derek was heedless of the restraint, and he was everywhere at once – before her, around her, above her – his strong hands making quick work of the buttons on her jeans before sliding around her waist and into her loose pants. Her gasp was caught in his torrid kiss. He was like a hurricane, powerful and destructive – devastating. She opened her mouth to welcome the sweet invasion of his questing tongue. It plunged deep, searching and finding, giving and taking. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She should've fallen, but his arms were around her, urging her closer to the hardening contours of his body – to muscle and heat and sinew and Derek. She couldn't have enough. She molded herself to him, her ridiculous musings desperately trying to imprint herself against him as if she could make him remember, as if she could make herself forget. He released her lips with small kisses that had her hands twining in his dark hair, keeping him close. He said something completely unintelligible, kissed her jaw, her neck, and then her left breast where it swelled above the neckline of her sweater. Wickedly, he dipped his tongue into the valley between her heaving breasts.

When he deserted her, it was swift and sudden, and she swayed, her body aching with frustration. His blue eyes were stormy with desire, and she whispered his name like a mantra.

They dissolved into the woodwork like the mirage that they were.

She was still in her living room, buried under the confines of an ugly green quilt George had found in the attic – one of her mother's less than sane moments. Ellis Grey had hated the color green with a passion. She was breathing evenly as if it didn't feel like the world was spinning wildly out of control, just past the grip of her sanity. She was breathing, and she was alive. Her heart was thudding sickly against her ribcage, protesting against the very chore of sustaining her life. And she realized for the first time that part of her, a part that she vehemently denied with every breath, resented him for saving her. He should have let her be. He should have left her. He should have let her become a news story, a picture in a magazine, a warning against the hazards of driving in the rain. If he had, she wouldn't be curled on her mother's couch, fighting the urge to faint from the intense pain of devastation. She wouldn't feel like a harbinger of death that slowly brought destruction to those closest to her one at a time. First, Carol who had stopped breathing for no reason medicine could justify. Then her mother, the victim of terminal cancer, a textbook medical case that took her life in a few short months. And now Derek, whose image on her mother's television screen made _her_ want to stop breathing.

They were replaying a news clip of his trial – the day of the conviction. He looked marvelous, poetically defeated but with such aching pride that her heart threatened to squeeze out of her chest. He was getting up from a chair, surrounded by a team of competent lawyers who could do nothing to help him just as the talented team of doctors her mother had belonged to could do nothing to help her. Just as she hadn't been able to do anything for Carol. Just as she wasn't able to do anything for Derek. A uniformed man materialized out of nowhere and slapped handcuffs around his wrists. The metal looked odd against the magnificently tailored black suit he wore. With the sharp slant of his mouth, he followed them out of the courtroom, his head held regally high like this was all a terrible mistake and they all ought to be bowing at his feet for forgiveness. He was pride embodied, and masculine beauty at its finest most refined form. And she was never going to forgive herself for betraying him.

She _wished_ she had died that day.

"_Doctor Grey, thanks to you we were able to apprehend Derek Shepherd."_

Detective Julian Bennett's voice had been pleasant, glad that he was delivering such news. She remembered murmuring an incoherent response and ending the phone call. It took her two seconds to rush to her bathroom and one minute to empty the contents of her stomach into the toilet. She'd thrown up twice since – her own bile because she couldn't hold food down.

The sound of the doorbell ringing resounded in the fantasy fog surrounding her. She heard it echo and bounce like a jubilant child. It was joined by Cristina's voice – far and vague, calling her name.

"Meredith?"

She had forgotten her presence, could barely remember letting her in half an hour after the news broke. There had been attempts at conversation since, none of which were fruitful. She didn't trust herself to speak.

"Do you want me to get that?" Cristina's voice again, confused this time, a little bit louder.

She shrugged noncommittally and buried herself further into the dusty green cocoon her mother had bequeathed her.

When the unwelcome visitor knocked loudly at the door, Cristina left her chair and followed the sound.

Meredith made no effort to uncover the identity of her mystery guest. She did not move. She did not wonder. Staring blankly at her living room window, she thought about Derek, so desperate for freedom, so agonized by the injustice of wrongful accusation, so victimized by circumstantial evidence. She thought about him being led into an isolated dungeon where Seattle's mixture of sun and frigid winds couldn't burn his cheeks to a flushed tan color, where there were no stray dogs to claim him their owner. She thought of the way he would look at her should she build the courage to visit him one day.

It almost made her vomit again.

"Is she awake?"

Mark Sloan's voice filled her foyer, traveling into her living room like an intruder determined to grab her attention. Shutting her eyes against it forcefully, she leaned her head against the sofa's worn back and released a long weary breath.

"No, she's sleeping. She hasn't been feeling very well," Cristina lied.

Meredith could imagine her standing in her red Stanford sweater before Mark Sloan's towering frame, looking him straight into his piercing blue eyes and giving him half-truths. She probably looked terribly impatient like he was disturbing her favorite pastime or making her late for work. She didn't think Mark would particularly care about either discomfort.

As if to prove her right, she heard his footsteps smoothly trailing past the doorstep, and her stomach twisted painfully. Cristina didn't close the door.

"You're coming in," she noted irritably.

"I brought her food," said Mark from the doorway to her living room.

When she opened her eyes, she could see the back of his leather jacket framed by the door. She stared at him unbendingly, willing him away.

"Why?" Cristina asked incredulously.

He shrugged. "Because that's what people do when horrible things happen. They bring food," he reasoned, but he sounded as skeptical of the tradition as Cristina did.

"She's already had enough to eat." Another lie.

"What are you, the prison warden?" he snapped.

"I don't think she'd appreciate any prison humor right about now."

He murmured a string of curses that reminded her of Derek – imaginative expletives she hadn't particularly heard before. There was a shuffling sound when he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and passed the brown paper bag from his right arm to the left. Mark and his groceries. She wished he would leave her alone. She wished he would go away with his concern and his questions. She wished he would take the memories away. There was a painful similarity between him and Derek – pride and bitterness. Despite his jolly, devil-may-care façade, Mark Sloan was as haunted as the characters of his colorful past. He wasn't quite as intense as Derek, not nearly as frightening or as enigmatic. But one couldn't help but imagine them as the best of friends, breaking hearts, throwing fists and falling for the same woman in an explosive supernova. She imagined they would make formidable enemies now, like the hero and the villain of every epic story. She wondered who would play the role of the hero.

"All of this makes me very uncomfortable," her candidate hero was saying. His voice still came from the door to the living room, but he hadn't turned around as if he feared he'd be breaching her privacy.

Cristina was being appropriately uninviting. "Then why are you here?"

He hesitated for half a minute. "I want to help her. Hell, I don't approve, but I can help her," he retorted feelingly.

He was qualifying as the hero. Apparently, Mark Sloan had a remarkable capacity for forgiveness. She didn't need to explain or redeem herself. He accepted her less than savory decisions.

Derek, the evident villain of the broken pair, hadn't forgiven his dead wife.

"I'm going to check on her," Mark decided abruptly, stealing her thoughts away.

"What?" Cristina exclaimed, startled by his decision, but she couldn't stop him before he crossed imaginary boundaries and turned around.

For a long moment he didn't move, as if the sight of her huddled form arrested him. He hadn't expected the extent of her devastation. She could tell from the sad look that rested heavily in his worried gaze. His gray hair was combed nicely, splattered with a hint of rain. A tiny smile broke his grave face. He had resolved to help her, despite her deplorable loyalty to the enemy.

"Hi," said the potential hero, his voice odd in the sudden silence.

Meredith didn't say anything in return but thought that he fit the role well.

She still had a thing for villains.

----

The room was completely still, hissing with a sense of familiar foreboding. In the ghastly light wrought by the tubes of white neon, he contemplated his second downfall with a feeling of dread, but he refused to look at the long panel of mirror to his right. They were watching him, much as one would observe a controlled experiment – a wild unpredictable animal. It made his aching head pound even harder, and it hurt like bloody hell.

His jaw locked in place, he fixed his gaze to a spot on the unremarkable table before him. Insignificant little spot. And he waited with faux patience for them to break the ritual and walk into the interrogation room. He had little to say to them. He had little to say to anyone. Except for Meredith Grey. He had plenty to say to her, none of which she would like. His head protested against the thought of her. He let out a small hiss of consternation and rage, and then he summoned his expressionless face.

The door burst open then.

"Hello Shepherd," said Detective Jack Tray, strolling into the square-shaped room with a practiced confidence. He shut the door quietly after him as if they would converse in private, as if there wasn't a team of their finest behind the thick one-way glass, pouring over his every move. He would give them much to debate.

Derek flicked his gaze over the short stocky man, took in his crew cut brown hair and quick eyes, and then looked away as if in disgust.

"Or should I say Doctor Shepherd? I hear you were quite brilliant in your day, before you lost it and shot your beautiful wife for screwing the best friend. Another brilliant surgeon I hear. Such a brilliant story, full of brilliant people gone over the edge," he surmised as he pulled out the chair opposite his and casually took a seat. He was smiling like he found it all entirely too poetic to be true.

Brilliant, indeed. They _had_ all gone over the edge, just not the edge Jack Tray had assigned to them. It was a different kind of blackness that colored his soul.

"How did you escape?"

Derek almost smiled at that, but he was in no mood to find humor in the situation. "Where's my lawyer?" he asked slowly, his tone as measured as his posture. His hands were cuffed and placed on the table in plain sight.

"On his way, I believe. I thought we could chat before he gets here," Detective Tray suggested with an amiable smile.

Arching an amused eyebrow, he leaned back into his chair. "I'll wait."

"How about Meredith Grey? Do you want to tell me what you did to her?" Jack pressed on, obviously trained to be dogged in his pursuit of information. Things would become considerably less interesting once his book-waving lawyer made his way to the police station.

In spite of himself, Derek felt his expression darken ominously. _I saved her life. I gave her my secrets and my sanctuary. I let her go._ "Did to her?" he bit out.

"She didn't confess to anything, rather implied that you were a pleasant kidnapper. You better hope she doesn't press charges."

Ah, he was being provoked. That one was old. _Pleasant kidnapper._ Evidently, she hadn't gone into the lurid details either. "I'll keep my fingers crossed," he replied tonelessly.

That made the good detective frown. "Is there a reason that Doctor Grey would press charges?" he prodded.

"Is this legal?" It wasn't. He was well familiar with the system. This particular faux-pas was frowned upon. His book-waving lawyer was going to have a field day.

There was a knock on the door, a polite entreaty. The detective looked up and nodded at the mirror. A younger officer stepped in, Derek's lawyer in tow. The old lecher was smiling like he was the cat who had just swallowed the canary.

"Detective Tray," the young officer began. "There's been a development. If you would please join me for a moment."

Detective Tray was frowning deeply when he traded places with Henry Harp, who was scratching his scalp giddily as he fairly sauntered into the room. The door closed firmly behind the uniformed men, leaving Derek and Henry Harp in a scenario Derek detested hugely.

"I have wonderful news!"

Henry Harp was fairly bursting with it. His ears were crimson. His catatonic eyes were gleaming victoriously. Derek didn't think any sort of news from Henry Harp could be _wonderful_, but he humored the man with an assessing look.

"Well, Henry, do tell. I could use some good news," he admitted.

Paperless for once, Henry folded his hands on the table and grinned like a teenager who had just discovered a wicked magazine. "Your sister has confessed to everything: the crime, the gun, the key. All of it. On record. She was brought in by your other sister and Congressman Preston. They've been questioning her for hours. You're as good as free, Doctor Shepherd," he delivered, and he was fairly gushing as if the blood wasn't rushing to Derek's head at the speed of light.

"My _sister_? What do you mean my sister confessed? What the fuck are you talking about Harp?" he snapped because suddenly his chest was caving in. It couldn't be one of his sisters. It just couldn't. They wouldn't do this to him. They wouldn't murder Addison. They wouldn't frame him for it.

Henry nodded vigorously and scratched the scab on his scalp. "Rebecca Shepherd."

"That's impossible, Henry. You've lost your mind." But his heart was beating too fast because Henry Harp wasn't making this up. He was eager and jittery, but he was honest.

"Doctor Shepherd…"

The door swung open again, making room for Detective Tray and his young colleague who walked straight towards Derek with a set of keys. He unlocked the handcuffs around his wrists and stepped back in a gesture that implied deference. Derek looked at him with a puzzled expression, and then he looked at Detective Tray. The short man had taken an improbably interest in his mundane shoes. When he raised his head to meet Derek's penetrating gaze, he cleared his throat and spoke loudly.

"Doctor Shepherd, you're free to go."


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: I'm still only borrowing for fun and games that may not be so fun all the time, but well that's the gist of it. Nothing belongs to me.

Author's Note: Okay, seriously now, yay me! Less than a month! I'm on a roll! Okay, I'm pushing it, but still, yay! I'm finally able to make good time with a chapter, but seriously these things take _forever_ and a day to write. There's writing, and then erasing, and then writing, and then erasing, and then writing, and then muttering, and then reluctantly hitting the save button and moving on to some more of the same. It's pretty insane wrestling with one's muse. I'm sure most of you wonderful writers know what I'm talking about. Anyway, I'll spare you the long speech, and just move on to the good stuff. Thank you all SO SO MUCH for your wonderful/amazing reviews. I enjoyed reading them so much, and they help me set things in perspective. So thanks a lot! And please let me know what you think. I've promised good stuff, and it _is_ coming soon – fingers crossed.

Read on and please enjoy!

**Chapter 22**  
"And when we meet,  
Which I'm sure we will.  
All that was there will be there still.  
I'll let it pass and hold my tongue,  
And you will think that I've moved on."  
White Flag – Dido

* * *

His keys would have fit easily into the finely chiseled door – smooth like a piece of a puzzle falling into place. Their "_I Am Not A Doormat_" doormat – a gift from Mark – would have muffled her first footstep. She wouldn't have paused to rub the soles of her sneakers against the dirty fibers. She wouldn't have looked around before barging into the Brownstone, leaving the intricate door open and racing up the marble stairs.

The house would have smelled like it usually did on Addison's day off, like freshly baked sugar cookies and Swiffer Sweeper Citrus & Light.

In her bout of hysteria, she would ignore the homeliness of the place. She wouldn't think things through as she made her way down the hallway's thick green carpet. She wouldn't think of the Christmases they'd spent together in that house. She wouldn't think of Addison's one endearingly disastrous Thanksgiving dinner. Instead she would find the door to the master bedroom open, and she would wait for a minute – maybe two – until the shower spray died. Addison would step out of the shower in her usual oversized blue t-shirt and sensible beige underwear.

The faceoff.

_Rebecca, honey, what are you doing here?_

Gentle, Addison. Perhaps, she had been alarmed by the other woman's silent presence because Addison had known about Rebecca. She had known about the pills – secretly ingested in a similar manic moment. She had known about William Tray, the suicidal love notes under the pillow and _that night_. But she hadn't known about the child. Nobody knew about the child except for him and Sophia. And Rebecca.

She would then notice the gun, and real panic would surface. The fight or flight response would manifest itself in her body, a surge of adrenaline so powerful she would tremble with the force of it.

_Sweetie, put the gun down. Derek would be very upset if he knew you were playing with your father's guns. _

There she would slip-up. She would place a spin on their altercation that would leave her staring open-eyed at their ceiling, her limbs awkwardly sprawled – alone and defeated.

_Derek is very angry._

Rebecca would whisper, fearless, but full of love for him, full of the desire to avenge him – sweet darling Rebecca. Addison would have furrowed her brow with a genuine pang of regret because she had never _meant_ to hurt him, and she would say that to his crazed sister. She would beg and plead for minutes, long interminable minutes he was sure. He felt deeply sorry for the terror she had known before her words had sent Rebecca over the edge.

Rebecca had fired three times, with frightening aim. Three bullet-holes in Addison's blue t-shirt. Three gaping holes of blood. Three reasons for her death.

Addison went down, and chaos ensued.

Derek sat up in the queen-sized bed like a bolt of lightning, his ragged breathing the only sound in the quiet bedroom. Shirtless and drenched in sweat, he felt achingly cold and dreadfully hot all at once. The pale blue sheets were twisted hopelessly around his ankles. They made him feel claustrophobic. As he made a ruckus of kicking them off his feet, he tried to remember where he was. God, he couldn't make sense of the peaceful painting above the cherry-wood dresser in the heart of the room. He couldn't place the gentle creamy pastel of the walls. He couldn't make sense of anything but the erratic rhythm of his racing heart.

The sheets fell to the ground in a rustling heap of fine cotton – a reasonably high thread count he would have smiled at years ago. Now, he didn't spare them a second thought as his breathing slowed, and his memory slowly resettled his urge to flee. He was in the guest bedroom of Zachary Preston's Manhattan apartment. The day before, he had been released from prison, and Rebecca had been taken into custody.

He was free.

"_Doctor Shepherd, you're free to go."_

He had never felt more imprisoned.

Placing both feet on the cool ground, he left the firm mattress and stood straight, raking both hands through his sleep-disheveled hair. His head still hurt like a curse from the blow it had endured in Panama. Gingerly touching the offensive spot, he murmured an obscenity and strode into the bathroom attached to the lush bedroom. He had a hundred things to do, all of which could not wait. With his mind made up, he shed his wrinkled boxers and forewent the white tub in favor of the small shower.

Ten minutes later, he was back in the bedroom, a white towel around his waist. The sheets were still an undignified mountain on the parquet floor. His hair dripped water everywhere, but he paid no attention to the mess he created as he rifled through his suitcase of belongings – sent to him by Kathleen. Choosing a worn pair of 501 Levis and a dark blue Lacoste polo, he pulled them on with quick economic movements. He didn't bother with his wet hair or the stubble that shadowed the lower half of his face. His classic-fit polo felt smaller, and that made him frown in annoyance. The defined sleeves caught on the biceps of his arms, and the material he remembered to have once hung loosely now clung to the planes of his chest. Apparently, his religious two-hour workouts since his imprisonment had left him with wider shoulders.

Grabbing his wallet and the cell phone Zack had generously provided, he shoved them both into different pockets. His feet fit easily into his plain brown loafers. At least that hadn't changed. He cast a final look at his surroundings, experiencing a pang of guilt for leaving the graciously offered room in such a state of disarray. He promised himself to straighten it out later and silently left the room. A glance at the clock in the foyer alerted him to the early hour. It was seven-thirty in the morning.

Derek disregarded the inappropriateness of the hour and slipped out of the apartment unnoticed.

It was unusually warm for July. He didn't remember Manhattan being _this_ hot.

By the time the classic yellow cab delivered him to Nancy's apartment complex, his hair was dry.

He took the elevator to the ninth floor and only paused for a long deep breath when he was standing before the generic white door. He rotated his neck from left to right twice before he raised his arm and threw three polite knocks on Nancy and Michael's door. A harried maid opened the door twelve seconds later, her pink clothes wrinkled and blotched with the stains of toddlers and young children. He couldn't find a smile to flash at her in greeting, so he stared back into her bewildered dark eyes, raising his eyebrows when the silence lengthened to impolite proportions.

She blinked at him several times before lowering her head and ushering him into the foyer, the door clicking shut in his wake. "Hello, sir. How can I help you?" she managed to choke out.

_You can start by not letting in strangers,_ he thought derisively. She _did_ look frightened, and he began to wonder if he really looked so formidable. "Tell Nancy Derek is here, and that I would like to speak to her," he spoke to her slowly, his tone measured. A forgotten part of him was certain he was violating many terms of etiquette with this untimely visit. Upper-east siders didn't keep ungodly morning hours.

"Mrs. Monroe is asleep," she stated the obvious with remorse, her narrows lips pressing together as if she were trying to suppress something. She looked about ready to begin wringing her work-roughened hands.

Derek found himself frowning at her in irritation. "Wake her up," he snapped.

Her eyes widened comically in her flushed face. "I…"

"Derek!"

Derek turned around to find his sister in a floor-length pale pink robe, smiling radiantly – infinitely happy to see him even if he no longer conformed to the laws that governed their privileged lives. She stood at the mouth of the hallway leading to the three bedrooms, her short hair as perfectly arranged as ever, her hand wrapped around a smaller dimpled one. He looked down to find the little boy at her side smiling bashfully though he didn't seem to possess a shy bone in his body. His short-sleeved pajamas were bright blue with the superman logo proudly flaunted in red and yellow on his small chest. Derek felt a smile tilt his lips.

"Hey Nance," he said in greeting to his sister before squatting down to eyelevel with his grinning nephew. "Hey kiddo."

"Hey," Tom replied, his dark hair falling curiously over baby blue eyes. "Mom said you're back!" he burst out with sudden uninhibited excitement, wrenching his hand free of his mother's.

Derek heard the maid retreat and attributed her disappearance to a sharp look from his authoritative sister. She was much like their mother in that respect. Derek purged the thought as soon as it assimilated itself. As far as he was concerned, his mother had died the day she had taken that stand and sent him to prison. "I am," he confirmed with a smile he wasn't particularly feeling, though he did feel better than he had in days.

"Where did you go?" Tom wondered, his smooth brow furrowing in innocent puzzlement. He had evidently thought of this often.

Clearing his throat, Derek felt his smile dwindle but forced it back. "I was traveling," he said vaguely. "Look at you! You were this big when I left." He made a gesture with his hand that put little Tommy at the very bottom of the superman logo on grown Tommy's chest.

This amused the child greatly. His chest practically swelled with pride, and his broadening smile showed a row of small milk teeth. He was about to splutter something Derek was sure to find amusing when Nancy cut in.

"Tommy, Mary's waiting for you in the kitchen. You need to have breakfast before she takes you and William to the park." She placed a caressing hand on the boy's dark hair. "Go on," she encouraged.

The little boy lingered uncertainly. Derek found it endearing that the child was reluctant to leave his presence. Reaching out, he caught his narrow shoulder in one hand and guided him forward.

"Give Uncle Derek a hug. I'll be here when you get back or later tonight," he promised, wrapping his arm around Tom's slight body. He held him for all of ten seconds and then let him go. "Go on kiddo."

Tom gave him a winning smile and then raced past him towards the kitchen. Derek straightened to his full length and met Nancy's stare with his own. Her dark eyes glistened with unshed tears, and her lips trembled so slightly someone else wouldn't have noticed.

He gave her a wry smile. "Nance," he chided affectionately.

Ignoring his sarcastic reproach, she flung herself against him, wrapping him in a suffocating bear hug. He slung a perfunctory arm around her slim body and awkwardly patted her back through the soft cotton of her robe. A moment later, he took hold of both her shoulders and gently set her away from him.

"Don't go all soft on me," he teased.

She rolled her misty dark eyes at him. "You won't even let me hug you properly," she complained.

"I'm not much of a hugger," he shrugged and chucked her chin before gesturing with his head to the living room. At her silent nod, he preceded her into the elegantly furnished room and settled in the corner of the three-seat maroon couch.

"Nonsense," Nancy said from behind him. "You've always been a hugger."

Derek waved off the declaration and fell silent, his thoughts sashaying back and forth between Rebecca, Sophia and Addison. Too much needed to be said, but he was reluctant to say anything at all. The wounds were all glaringly open, and he had never been fond of ripping off the band-aid.

"Poor Mary. She's tongue-tied over you," Nancy laughed, shaking her dark head from the other end of the couch. She had always been the one adept at small talk when words failed him. "She was practically drooling when you were talking to Tommy."

Resigned to circumlocution, he rolled his shoulders back and relaxed against the richly cushioned sofa. "I think I scared her half to death," he intoned tiredly.

"I think you _stunned_ her half to death by waltzing in, looking like a movie star," she paused to flick off an imaginary piece of lint from the sleeve of her robe. "You look well," she told him, her warm eyes finding his with a wealth of emotion that made him slightly uncomfortable.

Derek looked away and propped his right foot on his left knee. "I feel like hell," he admitted, but he could feel her nearly motherly gaze roving over him with a mixture of approval and confusion as if she didn't quite know what to make of his changed physical appearance. As if she didn't know that he was even more changed on the inside. He was dark and void, and still as angry as the day they'd tossed him in a jail cell for the first time. Maybe even angrier because now he _knew_. And it wasn't easy to be furious with Addison anymore. The only thing that came easily now was his intense dislike for Meredith Grey, which he chalked up as indifference.

Nancy's voice effectively put a leash on his wandering thoughts. "Well you're barely groomed at all. Your hair hasn't seen a brush in a year, and your face hasn't met a razor in the past week. You're a lot _wider _– bigger, I don't know. But you're very dashing all the same in a rugged kind of way. You've always been so well-groomed. I'm not used to seeing you like this." Her brow furrowed at that, and she looked a little bit like Tommy – baffled and unsure.

He gave her a weary look and rubbed a hand over his bearded jaw. "Nancy, I'm not here to wax nostalgic about my appearance. I really can't care less." His tone was a lot sharper than he'd intended for it to be, but he knew he looked apologetic because her wounded look disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

She pressed two fingers to her forehead as if she too didn't know where to begin, and that was causing her a migraine. But she began all the same. "I heard her speaking to Sophia in the study. Sophia was consoling her, telling her it wasn't all her fault, that it was a mistake, and that _you_ would have wanted to protect her," she narrated.

Derek felt his jaw clench so tightly he thought it would break. His _mother_ had been in on this. She had practically orchestrated it. He should have known. "Go on," he managed to say calmly.

"Rebecca was hysterical. She said she missed you terribly, and that she couldn't take it anymore, the guilt, the pressure. Things had gotten a little bit out of hand when that woman Meredith Grey made her confession to the Seattle PD," she explained, her hands coming to fold neatly in her lap.

His jaw tightened, and a vein in his temple throbbed ominously.

"I called Zack immediately. We – me and Zack – we took Becky out of the house, away from Sophia, and we spoke to her. She confessed to everything. You know all of it. That's how it all went down. She was hysterical. I have never seen her so broken. She was such a wreck, and it was so hard. It was so hard to take her to the police and… Derek, she's just so unstable. I didn't know she was so fragile. I didn't know. She's sick, I think. I think she's sick," she muttered, her voice quieting to a murmured chant. The memory of Rebecca's hysterical confession confounded and pained her.

Rebecca was their little sister, the Shepherds' spoiled little kid. They all adored her equally. Derek understood her plight, had felt it as they'd led him out into the New York sunlight yesterday. "Rebecca _is_ sick," he told her softly, and it felt like an enormous weight slid off his chest as he unearthed the secret he'd held onto for over a decade.

"Yes, I think so," she agreed, nodding almost frantically.

Derek wished he could find it in him to scoot closer towards her and pull her against him, but he found he had developed an aversion to emotional intimacy. "Not think, Nancy. I know. Rebecca was diagnosed with a severe case of bipolar disorder years ago," he informed her, his tone as collected as his posture. Her eyes when they snapped to his face were wide and stunned.

"You _know_?" she fairly sputtered, the color rising in her cheeks.

"Sophia asked me to not tell any of you. She didn't want you to treat Becky differently. She didn't want to make her feel like an oddity. I think she meant well," he finished sardonically.

"God, that woman infuriates me. I could _strangle_ her. And you! I can't believe you never told us. This is… this is Becky! We would have taken care of her. This never would have happened…"

"Nancy," he interrupted her firmly.

"She needs to plead insanity," she realized quietly.

Derek studied the beige-hued carpet beneath his feet. "She would probably be better off in a hospital with professionals," he agreed.

They were quiet for minutes after that – a few or several. He wasn't entirely sure, but his heart felt heavier than ever. He was sending his baby sister to an asylum.

Nancy broke the silence with a question that made his blood surge hotly to his head. "Who _is_ that woman? Meredith Grey?"

"She's someone whose name I never want to hear again," he hissed coldly, and the topic was dismissed until much, much later.

----

Jose Cuervo and a nameless John were tempting her tonight.

John had many faces: bearded, stubbly, clean-cut, angular, round, blond and dark. He was tall and short, average and dashing. He winked and smiled. In his multifaceted eyes, the past gleamed. The pre-Carol era flashed like an omen from his radiant, tipsy smile. She could see him in her bed the next morning, drowsy and naked, tossing and turning in her mother's bed-sheets.

_I'm going to take a shower, and when I come back, you won't be here._

Somewhere in her morphed vision, John found a face. He was dark and forbidding. His eyes were an icy lake at dusk – blue, sinister, harsh. His hair was as thick and black as a July midnight – unrelentingly so. The firm set of his jaw made her ache with longing. There was nothing smiling about him, nothing inviting in the least. But she was drawn to him. He pulled her in with the intensity in his hooded gaze. She went to him like a moth to a flame. Just as inevitably, he destroyed her.

_He_ had a name.

The shot of straight tequila burned her empty stomach. She slammed her eyes shut for a full minute, abolishing the mocking face. When she reopened them, her gaze flicked over the cheerful colors of the Emerald City Bar, and she suppressed a sigh of relief. She was still alone. Her fingers were still clutching the small glass with frightening desperation. With a self-directed grimace, she replaced it on the bar. One shot. She should have had three in honor of Addison Montgomery and the three bullets Rebecca Shepherd had placed in her chest. Next week, on September ninth, it would be the fourth anniversary of her death. She wondered briefly if the prying cameras would hover by her grave, hoping for a glimpse of _him_. Derek Shepherd.

The first two weeks of his release, the press had followed him doggedly, splashing his pictures across magazines, playing videos of his wanderings on television – press conferences and charity balls. Despite his obvious disapproval of the pursuit, he seemed made for it. The cameras worshipped his magnificence, and the people _loved_ him. Reporters wrote glowing articles that made him into a victimized hero. He had sacrificed. He had lost. But he looked so impossibly strong it made it so easy to _hope_. In the face of his tragedy, he stood tall and unsmiling, but he had rebuilt his life and his practice. He was as brilliant as ever, and he made people hope.

She wished it wasn't so easy for her to read the empty despair in his eyes. She wished _he_ knew how to hope.

She wished she could stop thinking about him as effortlessly as she pretended to have forgotten him.

"Nothing else?" Joe asked, nodding towards the lonely small cup on the reasonably clean bar.

Glad that he had interrupted her train of thought, she flashed a genuine smile at him, which had the skeptical bartender raising his eyebrows. "No more tequila." She shook her blond head. No more Joses and Johns. "I'll have a mojito," she decided on a whim, and her stomach flipped in dismay when Joe's dubious look traveled from her face to focus on something or someone behind her. She didn't have to turn to know who the strong hand that gently squeezed her shoulder belonged to.

"Really, a mojito?" Mark Sloan asked, his eyebrows climbing as high as Joe's had, and she directed the rest of her withering smile at him in greeting. Then he shrugged and claimed the barstool next to hers. "And whiskey on the rocks for me."

"Coming up," Joe promised with a grin and a wink meant for her.

A bartender with a cupid complex. Exactly what she needed, she thought unkindly. Out of the corners of her eyes, she could see Mark studying her, and she shifted uncomfortably. The truth was that ever since having tentatively claimed the imaginary role of hero, he had been a better friend than she had imagined he could be. Granted they never spoke about their mutual _acquaintance_ in the two months since his release from prison, but some part of her knew that he understood. Perhaps he understood better than she did because he knew the effect Derek Shepherd had on people. He had suffered from it. He had weaseled his way past it and into Addison's bed. Now he was weaseling again, but Derek's ghost and his anger and his memory seemed a lot more binding than his wedding rings.

She had sworn off men, especially Mark Sloan.

"I'm sorry about your patient," he said sympathetically as he rolled up the sleeves of his lightweight gray sweater.

Grace Bickham had wanted to die. She had wanted to find her husband in the light, and she hadn't died alone. Three chatty loyal friends and a lesbian daughter had been sorry to see her go. Meredith could only hope her mother had been that lucky, but she knew Ellis Grey hadn't wanted to die. Ellis had wanted to outlive the world. She would have preferred to disappear than to die sick and weak. More than anything, she would have wanted to be alone, and Meredith begrudged her the selfish act. "Yeah," she replied faintly. "I'm sorry too." But she really wasn't all that sorry. Killing Grace Bickham by pulling out the tube that had kept her alive had taken its toll, but it had been the right thing to do.

Joe placed their respective drinks before them and hurried to the group of men hollering at the game on television.

Mark gave her an amused look over the rim of his tumbler. He sipped the whiskey slowly as if he wished to savor the potent drink. For a moment he seemed lost in thought as he replaced the drink on the bar and set his elbows on either side of it. "The chief published a new paper by your mother," he spoke softly, his head tilting to the side as his gaze caught hers. "Sudden infant death syndrome. It's the most detailed study I have ever read on the subject. It seems so out of her domain though. She never struck me as one who would be particularly interested in SIDS," he confessed, and he appeared confounded by the dilemma.

_She wasn't interested until Carol died of it. _Resentment festered inside her like a wound that had forgotten how to heal. She pursed her lips over the jolly striped straw and drew a long gulp of her mojito, mindless of the taste. "She was brilliant at whatever she did." _Save for motherhood._ "She probably read something she didn't like and thought she'd throw in her two cents," she explained dismissively, wishing he would just stop talking about it because all of a sudden she was perusing the crowd for Johns and wishing for Jose.

"I don't know," Mark said uncertainly, taking another cautious sip of whiskey. "It just seems so… personal."

She attempted a laugh that came out garbled and rather frightening, eliciting a strange look from her curious companion. "Trust me, nothing Ellis Grey did was personal." And that effectively doused his drive to further explore the subject.

He coughed, and she looked away. She could have kissed Cristina when she showed up seconds later, dumping her purse perilously close to Meredith's mojito and launching into an endless ramble about Doctor Sydney Heron who healed with love. The awkwardness was forgotten as Mark laughed quietly, and Meredith found herself smiling.

"And she says Alex – _Alex_ – is considerate and sensitive. Alex," she emphasized, her hand flailing about in an attempt to draw Joe's attention. "Hey Joe," Cristina greeted him when he finally made his way to their side of the bar.

Joe smiled at her kindly. "Harvey Wallbanger?" he asked.

She nodded and finally took the barstool on Meredith's other side. "And she had to go and prove me wrong in front of Burke of all people. He's giving me hell over this," she muttered under her breath. "As if moving in with him isn't bad enough."

"Bad?" Mark sputtered. "Poor Burke."

"Cristina," Meredith chastised her, using her straw to stir the sweating drink. A mint leaf swirled crazily in the transparent liquid.

Rolling her dark eyes skywards, Cristina graciously accepted the perspiring glass Joe handed her and immediately took an endless sip. "I'm just… it's just too much," she sighed, glaring at Mark to discourage his interference. They sparred often, which Meredith found amusing on most days. She wasn't in the mood for it today, so she thanked her lucky stars when Mark's pager began beeping incessantly.

"The hospital," he announced, coming to his feet. "I need to get this. I'll only be a minute."

"Take your time," Cristina said snidely, earning a glare from his departing form.

She waited until Mark was well out of sight before speaking. "You need to give Burke a break," Meredith advised.

"He needs to give _me_ a break," she retorted, turning around when the jingling bells signaled a new arrival. The sound melted into the cadence of the bar well, but it was just as easily picked out.

Not nearly as curious, Meredith smiled lightly but didn't bother to follow her friend's inquisitive gaze.

"Holy mother of…"

"What?" Meredith interrupted before the profanity rolled off Cristina's tongue. She twisted sharply in her seat, her eyes avidly searching for the object of fascination. She didn't have to search for long before her heart froze in her chest.

She couldn't blink or breathe for fear that he would disappear just as accidentally as he had appeared.

Derek Shepherd was laughing – _laughing_ – as he strode into _her_ Emerald City Bar with Congressman Zachary Preston. He was wearing the remnants of a charcoal gray suit, apparently having shed both the jacket and the cravat sometime during the journey that had led him to Joe's little corner of Seattle. _Her_ little corner of Seattle. _Her _life. _Her_ Johns and Joses. _Her_ Derek. The dark blue shirt clung to him in a way that made her stolen breath reluctantly seep into her lungs. He filled it completely, the muscles in his arms fairly straining against the fine fabric, the unbuttoned collar open against the strong column of his throat. The shirt was neatly tucked into the tailored pants, which hung onto his narrow manly waist with a standard no-non-sense black belt. They were still laughing as they wove their way through the crowd and to an empty table, and she could hear nothing but his laughter – loud and masculine and ringing with charisma.

"Oh my God, I didn't know…" Cristina didn't have to finish _that_ sentence.

Meredith had known. Much as she had pretended to, she hadn't forgotten. She and Cristina hadn't spoken about it or him since the fateful day when they had watched a news-clip of his release. Maybe something should have been said, but then there had been breaking news, and suddenly they had been rushing to the hospital to untangle the pile of bodies from a fatal train crash. "I… what-?" Her own incoherent voice sounded strange to her ears.

"Meredith," Cristina said slowly as if she had finally reigned in her frenzied senses.

It was hard to breathe again when they sat down. He was so close – so much closer than the polished man on television, so much more handsome and alive and vibrant. So much the Derek she remembered, and so much different. Her fingers itched with the need to explore his stubbly jaw. Her lips trembled at the thought of covering his smiling mouth. But he was off limits. He had discarded her as surely as one discarded a used pair of surgical gloves. He hadn't acknowledged the impersonal apology she had left on his machine one week after his freedom. He hadn't acknowledged _her_, and though she had expected the rebuff, it still managed to tweak a tender spot in her heart. "I'm fine," she lied steadily, turning back in her seat to face Joe, but she couldn't see anything. Her mind had fixated on Derek sitting in Joe's bar, wondering if he too had seen her.

The bells jingled again, and through her haze, she saw Mark enter the bar. He stopped dead in his tracks, as frozen as her heart had felt. She watched them exchange a long laden look – hero and villain in their first fair faceoff. Derek's jaw twitched with familiar rage, all hints of laughter erased from his dark unreadable face. Mark looked away first and made his way purposefully towards her. The rhythm of her heart hitched again, and then it began racing uncontrollably, threatening to burst out of her chest. He was going to see her. She heard Mark's voice despite the loud ringing in her ears.

"I have an emergency at the hospital. I have to go. I'll see you later," he promised, and impulsively, he leaned down and brushed a gentle kiss to her cheek. Just like that he was gone, and she found herself the subject of Derek Shepherd's icy glare.

Their eyes met and held for seconds or minutes. She couldn't tell because it felt like she was being strangled, her soul silently slipping out of her surrendering body. The shock at finding her had ebbed out of his gaze, leaving only room for an expression so ominous and telling, it made her wilt on the inside.

"I need to leave," she whispered.


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I'm only borrowing for the sake of non-profit entertainment.

Author's Note: I'm _really_ on a roll, thanks to you guys and your amazing reviews! I get some of the sweetest reviews, and I appreciate them so much. So thank you, all! I'm beyond flattered by your kind words, and I think it's lovely that you guys are enjoying this half as much as I'm enjoying writing it. Thanks again! And please always let me know what you think! On another note, I've hesitated a lot with this chapter. I've had it written for two days, but it's been undergoing some serious fine-tuning. It played out nicely in my head. I can only hope I captured some of what I envisioned on paper (blank screen). I hope you enjoy this!

**Chapter 23**  
"There were those empty threats and hollow lies.  
And whenever you tried to hurt me  
I just hurt you even worse,  
And so much deeper."  
It's All Coming Back To Me – Celine Dion

* * *

They reenacted the day of the storm – the day she had tried to escape her abductor, the supposed murderer.

She left him behind just as callously, pushing at the glass doors that separated the warm colors of Joe's bar from the cool dreary Seattle night. He wasn't sleeping the way she'd left him in the quiet cabin; he was socializing in a boisterous bar full of women who smiled and winked. The thought made her as fearless as she had been that other night, as ready to plunge into a tangle of the unknown, as eager to escape from the torment of his presence. Her heart mimicked an offbeat tempo, bouncing edgily back and forth in her ribcage until it felt like her very bones were rattled.

He was the predator again, in a different getup – sharper now than he had been before. He was cold, ruthless, dressed immaculately, and this time, he didn't run. His steps traced hers, longer, stronger than her own, and the moment they shut civilization out, he was at her elbow effortlessly, his steely fist wrapped around her arm. He didn't jerk her back or throw her to the ground.

He _stilled_ her.

They were breathing hard, but neither of them had broken a sweat. Neither of them had run. She couldn't catch her breath, and she couldn't bring herself to turn around. Behind the glass doors, Joe's bar was only a couple of feet away, but it felt like light years, civilization and people she had come to know. Eons. It all broke down. None of it meant anything. Derek was behind her, breathing as heavily as she, his warm familiar hand firm on her upper arm, like he was reluctant to let her go. It was the two of them again – alone. Again in her living room. Again in Zachary Preston's cabin. Again in the woods, on the porch, in the kitchen. It was another of their surreal moments, stolen like sour grapes for a starving child. She would feel empty after it, she knew. She would bear his wrath, and his condescending words. She would walk away, but she would feel infinitely older.

He let her go. It was sudden, like he had regained control of his senses and found this inappropriate. She couldn't think of anything that she would find inappropriate for the two of them. Her arm mourned the loss of his heat. Goosebumps pebbled her flesh, and even though summer still clung to the heavy night, she felt cold and alone.

"Look at me," he beseeched her quietly.

His voice was the same, but she had never been privy to this tone except for the day he had given her breakfast and asked her to be on her merry way. She bowed her head and pursed her lips, more reluctant than afraid. Derek Shepherd still couldn't scare her, but he could hurt her. And the pain was so much worse than fear. It was slow where fear was fast. It clung. It clawed like something with a life of its own, vicious in its intent – brutal.

"Look at me," he repeated, a little more forceful, very frustrated, and he touched her elbow. It wasn't meant to force her around. It was a mere brush of his fingers against her skin as if he wanted to make sure she knew he was there. As if she could forget.

She turned around quickly, not one to dramatize an action, and she was startled by how close he was standing. Her chin tipped upwards, she stared into his rugged face, trying to make sense of this familiar stranger. He didn't know her. He didn't know anything about her, but he knew everything. He knew everything that mattered, and she read that in the small catch of his breath and the way his beautiful eyes narrowed on her as if trying to make sense of this madness. The darkness of the night found a refuge in his hollow gaze, festering there like a ferocious disease, shielding his soul from the thirsty curiosity in her eyes. He was guarded, dark, unreachable, and she _knew_ him like she knew the night. She knew he was lonely and too furious to recognize it. She knew he was uneasy about the way they unintentionally gravitated towards each other. With unbending certainty, she knew that when he saw her, it was as hard for him to stay away as it was for her to run.

In the obscure pathway flanked by thick red-brick columns, she knew this with sudden clarity.

The silence between them began to scream. He was still standing close – too close for it to be impersonal. His hair was clipped shorter than it had been when she had last seen him. There was product in it, an attempt at civilizing the rich dark curls. They obeyed beautifully. His face was shadowed with the stubble he had kept since his rise from the ashes of his past. And his nose was still crooked, still bluntly imperfect, unashamed in its deformity, unconventional in its beauty. He was a beautiful man. She could regard the fact objectively and pretend that her insides weren't melting at their proximity. She could breathe in the citrusy, musky scent of his perfume, mingling with the smell of his long day, and resist the temptation to press her lips to his chest and breathe him all in. She could watch him and not touch him.

"I got your message," Derek said at length – unnecessarily. Technology was faultlessly reliable. He couldn't have missed the message she had left on his machine. He didn't say it unkindly. He was rather indifferent but critical of the content, as if he wished to give her constructive criticism on how to be less rigid. She didn't know what to say in return, and that made his sensuous lips tilt at the corners. He was amused by her discomfiture. He was amused at having left her dangling like a forgotten possession. He was amused, but he was still angry. "It was vaguely congratulatory. You stuttered a brief apology. It was in very good taste," he finished with a mocking smile that implied it was in extremely _bad_ taste, but he didn't seem to be enjoying this as much as his words hinted at. He walked around her, away from her, suddenly uncomfortable with the arrangement, unsure as to why he had followed her in the first place. Perhaps he was thinking about Mark Sloan, and his heartbreaking display of affection. Perhaps he was plotting what villainous plot he would next embroil them in. Or perhaps he was trying hard to contain the monstrous anger she glimpsed in his frozen gait.

She wanted to walk away badly, but she found herself rooted to the spot. "I'm glad you got it all sorted out," she told his back. It was such an inane understatement that she blushed when he swiveled back to face her. They were drifting away from the Emerald City Bar, engaged in a dance neither of them was aware of. Pulling and pushing. Intimate and aloof.

Another two minutes of silence. "September was her favorite month," he murmured softly in the manner of someone speaking a confession in the dark confined recesses of a damp cubicle. The Seattle night was anything but damp. It was balmy and young – inviting. Her stomach twisted painfully at the expression on his shadowed face. He went from anger to uncertainty in seconds. "Addison," he clarified when she didn't say anything in return. "It's not as hot as Manhattan's sticky summers, and it's not quite cold yet. It also happened to be the month she was born," he smiled wryly, and it wasn't sarcastic or surly. It wasn't meant for her at all. It was a secret smile that he kept for his dead wife, and it carried the weight of irony. Addison had died during her favorite month of the year. She celebrated both her life and her death in the same ten days.

She understood that he could remember her fondly now. He had put her ghost to rest, but he didn't seem to understand why. As if being cleared of her murder had made her the woman in chemistry class again. Meredith understood that while he had been shackled with the blame for so long, it was the first time that he truly felt it. He had been furious with Addison for getting herself into a mess that had ended with her death – even more so that he had been implicated in said death when he had been certain he had nothing to do with it. Finding out his sister was the real culprit freed him of physical prisons, but he accepted the blame now. He had placed his wife in the midst of the mayhem. He had unconsciously orchestrated their final scene with a gun and three bullet holes. It surprised her that she understood him so well. "She was beautiful," she said sincerely, having stared long and hard at the republished pictures of Addison Montgomery in recent magazines and newspapers – fiery red hair and heavy violet eyes. Irrelevant as it was, it managed to wring a hesitant smile out of him. She was relieved that a tacit truce had been called between them.

"I was sure she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen," he admitted, self-derisive and still smiling, but it was his old smile, the dark cynical one. He was telling her secrets in the dark as if they were still in the cabin, under his bed sheets, pressing kisses to forbidden places.

"Was?" she quoted him and hated herself for sounding vulnerable and needy.

Oddly, he didn't laugh or mock her. His disappearing amusement left him straight-faced again, overbearing and ominous. "Later I met many women who were more beautiful." It was a statement of fact, not disillusionment with Addison's beauty. He had perhaps taken those women to bed and did sinful things to them as he had done to her. He had probably imprinted himself on them and left them ruined for the world, craving him when he was far, hating him when he was near. Unbearable miserable creatures. "Don't look so tense, Meredith. I'm not going to ravish you," he snapped impatiently.

She drew in an unsteady breath, wondering where he would get such an idea. She wasn't afraid he would _ravish_ her. She was afraid he would expertly dredge up the secret softness she harbored for him and trample it in the beauty of the night. She was afraid he would leave her broken and unfixable. "I'm not tense," she lied readily, quick and certain in her denial.

He raised both black eyebrows, wonderfully thick and masculine, and it was clear he had worked himself to an advantage. He had the upper hand and he knew it. "You've proven to be a great little liar," he remarked unfeelingly, and she felt their precarious truce crumbling as surely as her strong façade.

Her sharp breath was too loud, too obvious. It was foolishly optimistic to believe for a second that he had looked past their circumstantial mishaps and forgiven her. She would be damned if she justified herself to the cold rock of a man regarding her with clinical eyes. "At least I'm still human," she retorted heatedly, the blood rushing to her head, her fingertips, her toes. She hated herself for the emotion in her voice. She hated him for smiling at it.

"Such passion," he muttered thoughtfully, and his hand – his large warm hand – lifted to her face and touched her chin. "Too bad we can't share a bed anymore. Mark Sloan and I don't share women too well."

It happened before she could think it through. One moment he was staring down at her with contempt and derision, and the next she had flung her palm against his face.

It echoed loudly – a clap of skin against skin. His head remained fixed in place as if she hadn't touched him at all, as if he had _allowed_ it to happen, but his eyes – his eyes flashed at her murderously, livid beyond belief. In the darkness, she could see the red silhouette of all five of her fingers coloring his cheek under the black stubble. The mark was as angry as his gaze. She had _never _seen him so angry, but she defied all reason and stood her ground, glaring into his glares, daring him to return the insult he so richly deserved. Only he was silent in his rage, and that was most disconcerting of all – not knowing the intent behind those black, black eyes, stripped of color by the night.

They stood there, in an unspoken battle of wills for minutes. Three or five. Then she pressed her lips together and brushed past him on her way to the parking lot.

She resisted the urge to turn and search for him in the clear night because she knew he hadn't followed her. His indistinct footsteps had disappeared instead of growing louder and more menacing. And she couldn't taste the predatory tang of his pursuit.

He was the first to balk in their tacit game of cat and mouse.

----

The coffee in the standard cream-colored mug was stark black – thin and tastelessly poor.

It reflected his mood perfectly, which he did not particularly understand. Derek had woken up to the beauty of the Seattle harbor, captured perfectly in the floor-to-ceiling windows of his six-hundred-dollars-a-night suite at the Marriott Waterfront. The soft daylight of a September morning had warmed the plush carpeted ground, casting the gentle creams of the expensive furniture into a fascinating golden halo of light. Ferryboats had rolled to and fro like great gusts of wind from the past, majestic and calm in their realm. Any day, this would have been enough to improve his disposition. Any other day.

As his fingers closed over the firm ceramic handle, he brought the mundane mug to his lips and took a healthy sip of the coffee offered by the Marriott's breakfast buffet. He was wishing for a decanter of brandy with which to enrich the watery liquid. Truthfully, he was wishing for the oblivion of inebriety. He wanted to be completely foxed at breakfast. His lips twisted with self-derision. The mug made a firm thud when he replaced it on the round table.

Across from him, Zack juggled a newspaper, a glass of orange juice and a fork with a neat square of his Spanish omelet. Sarah Wheeler-Preston, his wife of two years – of which Derek had born witness to none – was at his left elbow, digging into a colorful delicious assortment of fruits, completely at ease with their silent coexistence. Derek watched them speculatively as he juggled and she ate. He was disorganized and messy – a heaping mass of elbows and knees, ungraceful in his management of several tasks. She was as prim as he was chaotic, as dainty as he was gawky, and she seemed to have a knack for righting the angle of his newspaper when it went askew. It was such a small simple task that she performed with absentmindedness, as if she had been doing it for decades.

Their uncanny coordination astounded him.

He looked away, uncomfortable with the silent companionship. His mind drifted like a ship without a sailor, left to its own devices. He was outside the Emerald City Bar again, in the narrow pathway, surrounded by an abundance of red bricks and the shadows of the Seattle night. Accosted by Meredith Grey. He had accosted _her_. The distinction seemed irrelevant when he'd walked away chased by his own demons.

He had let the monster out to play.

As Mark Sloan had leaned over her at a random bar in the heart of Seattle, landing his lips on her cheek in a kiss that looked all but chaste, Derek had known the reemergence of the vicious creature that clawed at his insides. His jaw had set into an incessant tick. That bristling beast had disappeared altogether when he'd followed her retreating form into the dark, desperate to catch her before she became a vivid memory again. He had stopped her, stared her down, and he'd been devoid of darkness for a while, empty of anger and hatred. For minutes, he had forgotten all the valid reasons he disliked Meredith Grey. He had forgotten that she had turned him in to the police. He had forgotten her lies in the cabin – the lies he had been so generous as to forgive the night he had gone to her in her Seattle townhouse. He had forgotten that Meredith Grey was quite possibly suicidal, which inexplicably angered him the most. He had even forgotten that little scene in the bar with Mark Sloan.

Standing there in her dark blue, too-tight skinny jeans and a gray hoodie she had zipped to just below her breasts where a casual white tank top bared an indulging view of cleavage, she had looked like anything but the culprit in Derek's self-woven woes. Her attire had been such a contrast to his own formality that he'd found it endearing. He had wanted to trap her against one of the broad brick columns and snugly fit his hands between her jeans and her skin. He had imagined his lips at the base of her throat, moistening the delicate hollow with the tip of his tongue, her soft golden hair feathering against his cheeks. He had wanted to _ravish_ her, and the thought had left him bereft, off his turf, uncomfortable in his own skin. The monster had been stirred to life, but he had suppressed it, promising himself that he could deal with it – with her – without being taken over by the darkness that so plagued him.

In the span of short minutes – blinks of an eye – the unspeakable had happened. He'd begun exposing himself again, murmuring clandestine words, confessing his sins like a believer to a priest. Derek Shepherd was no believer, and she was certainly no saint.

The monster had burst out of him then, prowled the ground and hurled itself full force at the unsuspecting Meredith Grey.

She had slapped him.

"You're awfully quiet this morning," Sarah's cool voice took the sting of Meredith's hand off his cheek, dragging him back to the present. When his eyes found hers, she was regarding him in a way Derek had come to recognize as purely her own. Her dark brown gaze did not waver as she studied his expression, and then she flashed a kind smile that made it feel like she wasn't prying at all. Suddenly it seemed like it was her very right to be making odd observations and expecting explanations. She was curious but also reserved and classy, un-intrusive.

Derek found himself tentatively returning her smile with one of his own. It wasn't exactly what he would call a smile, but it morphed his face into an expression that acutely resembled a dull smirk. "I'm just a little pensive," he replied slowly, and he almost winced when the vague words rung like a dismissal. He hated to dismiss the genuine concern wrinkling her smooth brow.

Zack dropped his newspaper in favor of participating in the exchange. The jumble of gray sheets scattered scrappily beside his empty plate, and as if on cue, she mindlessly picked it up from under his arm and effortlessly managed to restore it to a normal newspaper that lay wadded between their plates. "You were awfully quiet last night after you followed her," Zack intervened, draining the last bit of his orange juice. With his fork, he stabbed a slice of mango from her bowl and brought it to his lips. He chewed complacently.

He _had_ been quiet after being left in the dust by Meredith Grey. The slap had rattled him, all at once evoking fury and something akin to regret. "That's…"

When he trailed off, Sarah raised her shaped eyebrows and divided a curious look between him and Zack. "Followed who?" she prodded.

"Meredith Grey," Zack supplied dutifully. "We stopped by this bar close to where Derek's relatives were staying, and she was right there with Mark Sloan. When Derek saw her, she just left, and he followed her." He made a gesture with his head towards Derek, green eyes uncomprehending of any sort of logic that would justify hunting Meredith Grey down. Loyally, he disliked her as much as Derek had made them believe _he_ disliked her.

Sarah's eyes sparkled with subdued interest, and Derek bit back a groan of frustration. The look on his face must have dissuaded her from pursuing the issue because she was silent for a moment as she picked through pieces of kiwi, graciously offering him a reprieve. He liked her more than ever. When she turned her gaze on his again, it held a different light. She was extremely fond of him – an aching loyalty to her husband, his only true friend.

"Zack tells me you've come all the way to Seattle in pursuit of the disappeared tenant – an old lady – who lived in Fort George," she said finally, and he wished she had chosen a lighter topic.

He had come to Seattle in search of this old lady who took care of his charge, the young, beautiful and willful Helen-Michelle Shepherd. Rebecca's daughter who was at the dramatic age of eleven had set herself up on a quest in search of her father, taking full advantage of Derek's absence. Unable to control Rebecca and William Tray's lovechild from prison, he had been somberly informed by Zack that the mysterious tenant who received a generous paycheck had upped and left the apartment in Fort George. It was impossible to take action when nobody knew of the child's existence. Tray himself did not know. Sophia had made sure, despite Derek's objections, that the child's existence remained a secret. Rebecca was hysterically unreasonable when it came to the child. William Tray had never learned of the pregnancy, during which Rebecca had been sent to Paris under the masquerade of an elongated family visit with a nonexistent aunt.

As Sophia had expected him to do, Derek had taken responsibility for yet another blip on his mother's radar. He had taken the screaming pink bundle back with him to New York, hired a full-time nurse and nanny, set them up in a Manhattan apartment and became the best uncle he knew how to be. Up until his imprisonment, he had visited Helen every single day of her young life. She had become a fixture in his life, a little ray of sunshine: first with her toothless smiles, then with first words, first steps, first sentences. The bright spot of his many horrible days.

Addison had never known.

"Yes," he muttered, astonished to find that when he tipped the mug against his lips only a dollop of coffee remained in it. He had downed the terribly mixed blend. "Still no luck. If this takes any longer, I'm afraid I might start investing in a land up north." He smiled sardonically, glad he could elicit a genuine smile from Zack's beautiful and empathetic wife. He was showering her with omissions and half-truths, and he almost felt guilty.

"It won't be the worst idea," Zack offered his piece of advice with raised eyebrows and undisguised suggestion.

"The land Zack owns here is absolutely gorgeous. Acres of forests. We stayed there for a while a year or so back," she related, her face brimming with beautiful remembrance. She put her fork down, finally done with her fruit salad, and wiped her lips with a napkin. It had been a good time for them. One could guess by gauging her brilliant smile.

Derek fought a wince at the reference. Yes, he knew Zack's land well. He knew the cabin. He knew the bed and the shower and the couch and the kitchen – all with surprising intimacy. "It's lovely," he found himself agreeing, and he was about to say more about the cozy rooms compared to the vastness of the nature surrounding it when his phone began shrilling loudly. A most welcome diversion. The number was unfamiliar – a tip he hoped as to the whereabouts of Helen. He had hired a private detective to search for her. "Hello?" he answered politely.

"_Hello, Derek, it's Richard Webber."_

His eyebrows climbed onto his brow, and he was both shocked and flattered that his former mentor had sought to get in contact with him after all this time. "Chief Webber!" he exclaimed. "It's good to hear from you," he said honestly, but Richard didn't seem to have called for idle chatter. Over the next four minutes, he explained he had a situation at his hospital – Seattle Grace. His only trusted neurosurgeon was down with a severe case of the flu – incidentally, said surgeon was none other than William Tray. He had a doctor in labor who refused to do any pushing before a world-renowned surgeon, such as himself, performed a crucial surgery on her husband who had suffered trauma to his head as a result of a car accident. All of this, he said, was happening in the worst time possible because Seattle Grace was in quite the situation. They had a code black. Derek had read of it, had studied it as diligently as any other student in med school, but he had never witnessed an actual code black. When Richard asked rather insistently that he come into the hospital for the surgery on some Doctor Bailey's husband, Derek didn't hesitate.

He promised to be there in the twenty minutes it took to drive from the Marriott to Seattle Grace.

* * *

To be continued.

I've been borrowing from the show's events. I thought it would make for an interesting read - a new take on existing events. AU but not so AU. That kind of thing.

Please let me know what you think!

Thank you so much for reading. :)


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Grey's Anatomy and its characters belong to Shonda Rhymes & co.

Author's Note: I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long for this chapter. I'd like to thank you all for your amazing reviews. As always, I'm completely flattered by all the wonderful things you have to say, and I'm extremely excited that people are picking up this story again because of the more frequent updates. Thank you all so much! I'll try my best to keep this up until the story gets wrapped up. On another note, this chapter has been playing about in my head for weeks, and I don't particularly _love_ the first part of it, but I did so enjoy writing the second one. Meredith and Derek are so fun to write, even though it's becoming increasingly hard to write them as dark and twisty when they're so blissfully engaged on the show (YAY SHONDA!). Still, dark and twisty is my thing. I find dark, brooding Derek very appealing to say the least. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reading your thoughts so makes my day, so please don't hesitate to let me know what you think!

**Chapter 24**  
"If I could, I would - I'd pull your ribs apart.  
Like the bars on a jail cell,  
We'd make a clean break.  
I'd touch your racing heart,  
To control those anxieties, to calm you down,  
To stop you from pacing around."  
Broken Ice – Umbrellas

* * *

The man on the operating table was reluctant to live, which inevitably reminded him of Meredith Grey and her apparent death wish.

Derek Shepherd had been miserable for the better part of his adulthood, but even at his absolute lowest – sentenced to decades of unjust imprisonment and betrayed by his own family – he had _never_ considered taking his own life. He was a healer, a man who fixed broken things, removed unwanted things. He was a man who valued life, and he could not understand how anyone would feel differently.

When Miranda Bailey's husband flat-lined one hour into the operation, Derek had stubbornly refused to let the man die on him. He had brought him back to life, and it had felt like finding Meredith broken and battered in the woods all over again. The parallel made him uneasy at best because he himself was beginning to behave like Meredith Grey, like life was just another earthly possession that could be easily sacrificed. Like his soul could be bartered away.

Zack had called him certifiably insane when he'd explained about Richard Webber's predicament with the code black and Derek's role in it. Nonetheless, he had turned a deaf ear to the Prestons' protests and had rushed to Richard's rescue as if he too had come to believe in the paintings of heroic glory the press had designed for him. He knew better, but he wasn't afraid of the imminent bomb threat. His heart was beating with frightening normalcy, slow, sure thuds that sent blood to his busy hands.

He wielded his forceps with the easy grace he had regained since his return to the practice. The mastery of his metaphorical trade filled him with a sense of superiority, a sense that he surpassed all the earthly things that bound him to the conventions of life and death. He didn't think Meredith Grey was quite so philosophical with her loose hold on existence.

Lost in his own thoughts, he had tuned out the pitifully small team of nurses and doctors aiding his surgery. Over the past two hours, they had chatted incessantly about the bomb, a Doctor Burke who was in charge of the situation, a screaming wife, Miranda Bailey who would not give birth and a paramedic with her hand on the explosive. The girl was young, someone had said – still in training, which to Derek was enough explanation for her foolishness. Delusions of grandeur always spelled disaster.

"Is he going to live?" Doctor O'Malley asked somberly, his round blue eyes severe and pained in his pale face. Under his scrub cap, his brown hair was awkwardly cropped, like a child had gone wild with a pair of scissors to his hair.

Derek gave him an irritated look. "Suction," he ordered firmly, and the meek young man complied readily. He found he wasn't particularly fond of the overly-obedient childishly eager intern, but he had never been unfair. "Doctor O'Malley, the micro-scissors," he requested, holding out his hand expectantly. He waited for two seconds before lifting his gaze from the naked brain before him and to the jittery doctor's face. Glaring at him sternly, he reached out and plucked the instrument from his unsteady hand.

"I-I'm sorry, sir… Doctor Shepherd, sir. There's a-a code black, a bomb, and Doctor Bailey. And my…"

"I know there's a code black, Doctor O'Malley," he cut him off sharply. "What I don't know is what that has to do with you almost dropping my sterilized micro scissors," Derek finished on a biting note that had the intern shuffling nervously in his place. He could see him literally lowering his chin out of the corners of his eyes, and he resisted the urge to snap at him again. The tense exchange hushed his chatty assistants. Perhaps, he was becoming mean and surly, he thought to himself and felt a wry smile claim his lips beneath the sheer mask. Addison would have called him on it. Meredith would have kissed him out of it. His smile withered at the intrusion of the thought, and he was almost grateful when the bloodthirsty Doctor Cristina Yang burst into his O.R. for the third time. Almost. His annoyance was far greater than his relief.

"Hello again, Doctor Yang," he muttered, his voice heavy with undisguised censure.

She mumbled a slew of excuses for her sudden intrusion, none of them sincere. In the midst of that, George O'Malley grew a new spine. "How's Doctor Bailey?" he asked urgently.

"Still the same," she reported mechanically, the allegorical automaton. Derek had envied surgeons like her for the better part of his surgical career until his return two months ago. His detachment as a doctor now rivaled the best of them.

An elderly nurse with kind eyes and graying hair glanced at Cristina Yang reluctantly as if she wasn't quite accustomed to dealing with the forceful intern. "How's the girl with the bomb?" she inquired softly.

Derek shot a quick glance at Cristina's hesitant, shell-shocked features. The robot had given room to a very human expression of utter terror. He hadn't quite imagined she was capable of that, and he wondered how much more horrible the-girl-with-the-bomb situation could have gotten. It hadn't exploded. That much was certain. But the look on Doctor Yang's face said it might as well have exploded.

"She's ah-hanging in there," she responded finally, clearing her throat like something acrid was resting there.

George O'Malley was as unsettled by her answer as Derek was. "Cristina?" he prodded. "What happened?" he pressed on, and Derek was pleased to find there was a dogged bone in the young man's body.

"Nothing happened, George," she shot back sourly, and her tone would have discouraged someone less adamant than the intern to Derek's right.

"Cristina," he repeated, his voice a notch louder. If Derek himself wasn't so curious, he would have given them hell for this and asked them both to leave. As it was, he waited with strained patience for the clearly distraught young woman to gather her wits.

A full minute elapsed, and everyone around him seemed to be holding their breath in anticipation. Cristina Yang was trying to catch her breath as if what she wanted to say had knocked the wind out of her chest.

"Meredith," she began evenly, and Derek's world began its slow tilt into an abyss of darkness. "Meredith Grey is the girl with the bomb," she stated, wits gathered at last, face masked with neutrality.

Tucker Jones' heart gave out just as Derek's heart tripped over its own rhythm, and his gaze snapped from the micro scissors to Cristina's telling eyes. He was under the irrational belief that staring at her would make what she had said untrue. The heart monitor shrilled loudly, but he was frozen to the spot, his chest caving so painfully he could hardly breathe. When Doctor Yang snapped into action, his own body responded instinctively. He threw off his headset and fell into a monotonous rhythm of manual compressions on the strong man's still chest. A crash cart rolled to his side, and he pulled away as Doctor O'Malley called, "Clear!" and shocked his patient's unresponsive heart. It felt surreal – like hours – when in fact it was only seconds later that Derek brushed them all aside and pounded on the man's chest with all of his might – with his clenched fist. Dragging Meredith Grey back to his cabin. Nursing her back to life. He wasn't going to let her die on his operating table. He wasn't going to let Tucker Jones die on his operating table.

Like a surprised bird, the heart monitor chirped to life. Derek stepped away, baffled that five pairs of astonished eyes were studying him with a mixture of admiration and fear. The wayward cacophonous symphony of his heart slowed to a dull, even thud, and he drew in a deep restorative breath.

Tucker Jones was alive.

"Forceps," he breathed roughly, and the metallic instrument was immediately pressed into his gloved hand. Cristina Yang slipped out of the operating room unnoticed.

Meredith was the girl with the bomb. Suicidal Meredith Grey who had ended up in the same hospital Richard Webber had called him to was laying her life on the line again, heedless, mindless. The sacrificial lamb. The infuriatingly selfless woman with the silver laughter, who should have loved life and clung to it zealously. Fury rose silently, a monstrous presence in his chest that mingled with fear, pushing it aside. His stomach roiled in protest, but he worked diligently for another hour in utter silence. Cristina Yang didn't come in again when he wished she would. George O'Malley stopped fidgeting and interrupting, but he looked as stricken as a deer caught in the headlights of an impending train, and Derek thought he heard him murmur something about _his Meredith_. Everything was quiet when he wanted noise and news. The longest hour of his life came to a close when he made the final suture along Miranda Bailey's husband's scalp.

Tucker Jones was saved and out of the woods.

He spoke to no one as the elevator took him to the main floor, metallic doors parting smoothly to reveal the raucous surroundings of a hospital in turmoil. Chief Webber towered above the crowd, his dark brow furrowed, his lips pressed in consternation while the bomb squad explained something he apparently disliked. Blind to the questions hurled at him from people he had never met, he crossed the crowded floor and placed himself at Richard's side. The elder man caught sight of him immediately and flashed a quick half-hearted smile of thanks.

"Anything else I can do?" he offered with faux composure. He didn't particularly care to help anymore, and he felt anything but up to the task. He just wanted to stay and make sure she was alright. He wanted to stay and shake her when they brought her up. Perhaps he could jar some sense into her.

Richard seemed distracted but he spared a minute for the man who had delivered a monumental favor. "They're removing the bomb as we speak," he explained. "Thank you, Derek, but I think you'd better leave. I won't be responsible for the well-being of New York's leading neurosurgeon."

He ignored the flattery because his mind had latched onto the image of Meredith handling an unstable explosive. "Right now? They're removing the bomb from the man's body cavity?" he persisted, and he hoped he didn't look half as shaken as he felt.

His mentor didn't seem to notice. He was either more adept at hiding his emotions than he'd known, or Richard was simply too preoccupied to realize that Derek Shepherd was irrationally interested in the bomb. "I have an intern down there with her hand on…"

The rest of the chief of surgery's words died a sudden death on his lips because an earsplitting, shrill explosion rattled the very foundation of Seattle Grace.

The bomb had exploded.

He felt his stomach drop weightlessly. It was too violent, too loud and ugly, and it made him feel too much. He longed for the numbness of anger. He longed for anything but the intense fright festering inside him. Richard brushed past him hastily, barking instructions at a group of people Derek barely saw. Through his inner turmoil, he found himself seated on the very far edge of a row of chairs. When he looked up, he saw the elderly nurse from his operating room smiling kindly into his eyes as if she understood all that plagued him. As if Derek himself understood why he could not bear the thought of a world without Meredith Grey.

The elevator was in plain view when it opened, revealing a tall, dark doctor that they all hailed as Burke and two women holding up a battered Meredith Grey.

The rush of relief that washed through him was so great, he almost laughed, but he suppressed the urge as his expert eyes drank in the sight of her, charred slightly, a new bleeding gash on her forehead, gray eyes stricken but open and blinking. She was walking. No serious injuries that he could detect, except an almost sober awareness that she was indeed mortal. They whisked her away quickly, out of sight, out of reach, and Derek left his chair with half the mind to follow them.

He didn't. Turning away from Richard Webber's mess, he left his fear and his rage behind and drove his rented car back to the Marriott.

He wasn't going to leave her alone.

----

It was raining with a vengeance.

The night outside her bedroom window was shadowed by torrents of rain that to her naked eye looked like a million sheets wrapping her in a sheltered cocoon of loneliness. She had almost died today – again. In her latex-gloved hands, she had held her life, like it was no more than a porcelain ornament that would shatter should she move it the wrong way. She had almost died, and for a few minutes all she could think about was Carol. Had Carol known she was dying? Had her baby struggled to breathe before her little heart had given out? Had she wanted to live as desperately as Meredith had wanted her to live?

The familiar burning pain slowly took hold of her stomach, spreading to her chest like a wildfire. She felt tears shiver in her eyes, blurring her bedroom window to a dark indefinite blob. Her fingers caught them before they slid down her face. She was so tired of crying. She was so tired of the sadness that death had seemed like a welcome reprieve. She'd abolished the sinister thought as soon as it had weaseled its way into her mind. She had done what had to be done.

"Meredith?"

It was Izzie's quiet voice from the doorway to her bedroom. She was glad she was lying with her back to the door. She shuffled, and Izzie took that as her cue to continue.

"There's someone at the door for you," she announced with a breathless anxiety that left Meredith puzzled.

Sitting up slowly, she turned to find her roommate gone. Had Mark Sloan already followed her home and intimidated her friends? Would he _ever _leave her in peace? She was thinking disgruntled thoughts as she descended the blunt wooden staircase – so much her mother's that she irrationally resented it. Her bare feet hit the landing with a gentle thud, and she walked into the foyer reluctantly – not quite prepared to come face to face with Mark and his expected concern.

She raised her chin, ready to rebuff his kindness because she couldn't take it – or him – when her gaze landed on Derek Shepherd. He was such a farfetched vision that she blinked twice before she thought to close her parted lips. Dressed in black from head to foot, except for the snowy white collar of his pressed shirt, he looked as dark and foreboding as the thunder shaking the Seattle night sky. Their eyes met and held for minutes on end, and she understood Izzie's hesitance. Derek Shepherd was not a man to be announced lightly. His presence ate up her house, shrinking the massive townhouse to the tiny foyer and the five steps that separated them. His icy blue eyes were a tangle of emotions she couldn't decipher if she tried, and his full lips were set so firmly together, it was a wonder he could part them at all.

He looked like the angel of something unpleasant – like destruction or death.

"Hey," she greeted him with a façade of normalcy, as if a throng of butterflies hadn't just taken flight in her stomach, crashing into her heart in their frenzy to break free.

The sound of her voice made him tilt his still head slightly – an acknowledgment perhaps. She didn't really understand the softened expression on his face. Had he forgotten their last heated encounter? Had he forgotten that she had slapped him and gotten away with it?

"Hey," he breathed, his demeanor surprisingly soft, gentle like he was afraid she would break. He looked away then as if he was trying to suppress an urge that was so strong he could hardly fight it while looking at her. She watched him at leisure, his dark hair thick and dipping over his forehead at the far right, an unruly errant curl that she had loved to brush away.

"What are you doing here, Derek?" Meredith asked wearily, afraid that her traitor of a heart would turn this into something that it wasn't. Derek Shepherd was no softened man, and she did not want him in her life. He was far too devastating a force, far too much for her to handle.

His straying gaze snapped to hers, and what she read in his eyes was no mystery this time. Accusation, anger, cool disdain. "You almost died today," he stated, a note of wonder in his deep voice, and he must have read the questions in her eyes because he spoke before she could voice them. "Richard asked me to come into Seattle Grace for an emergency surgery. I heard," he said, and he sounded very matter-of-fact. Like it didn't matter that she had almost died except he was standing there, looking puzzled and furious because it somehow mattered to him.

"Oh," she whispered, and she tried hard to fight the tiny smile forcing its way onto her lips. The small winsome smile won out, and she bowed her head to hide it from him. Through her golden lashes, she could see him step closer, but she didn't know how close he was.

"How is it funny that you almost died today?" he mocked, but his tone was more severe than the light words, and he was much closer than she had bargained for because the fingers of his right hand touched her chin with ease. She startled at the touch. Her heart reacted most fervently, but she looked cool and collected when he tipped her chin upwards, forcing her to meet his steady stare – a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

"It's not," she uttered the denial fiercely because she hated the indictment in his narrowed eyes. How dare he imply that death amused her. His hand fell away, and every inch of her mourned the loss. She wished she was dressed in anything other than her Dartmouth t-shirt. It made her feel small and vulnerable, and her heaving breasts felt all but naked without the benefit of a brassiere.

"Then why is it that every time I find you, you need to be saved?" It was a rhetorical question, but his eyes fairly begged for an answer. She had none for him, except another denial that she held in check. "Is it that you want me to save you?" he wondered aloud, and he smiled broadly, like the idea was the funniest thing he'd stumbled upon in ages.

"Don't be ridiculous," she bit out rigidly, and she wished he would go away. Another part of her desperately wished he would stay. "What do you want, Derek?" she asked forcefully, willing him to say the truth.

The words seemed to shake his solid composure. His controlled expression dissolved into a harsh mask of irritation, and his stubbly jaw clenched even harder. He seemed to be struggling with something he didn't want to say. "I saved your life," he hissed finally, glowering at her with the black ominous eyes she was yet to steel her heart against.

Her distant glare met his as evenly as possible. "You shouldn't have," she replied with frightening honesty, and that seemed to snap whatever he had left of his grip on sanity.

She didn't waver when his hands shot out from his sides to hers, grabbing her shoulders like two bands of steel. He wasn't hurting her, but he was firm enough to assert his presence. His dark face colored with rage, and he shook her hard. "Shut up, Meredith. Shut the hell up," he swore extensively – not at her, but at a myriad of things she could barely keep track of.

None of it made sense at all, and despite her veneer of serenity, she was just as rattled as he was. His face loomed close to hers, twisted with the kind of darkness she had only found in Derek Shepherd, and his hard eyes bore into her with unsettling intensity. "What's it to you?" she murmured, defensive and uncomfortable with how out-of-hand everything had gotten.

Derek released her, but he didn't step away. "You have a knack for ending up in my way. I can't ignore that," he said dismissively. It wasn't _her _that he couldn't ignore but rather her predicaments. She believed him wholeheartedly because he didn't strike her as the kind of man who would make any woman his business. He could make love to her and kiss her and pretend to be all the things that she wanted, but he could just as easily shatter her with his indifference.

"I'm sorry for inconveniencing you," she snapped, hating herself for how hurt she sounded by his callousness. This irritated him. His eyes glanced over her like one would regard a clingy uncomprehending child, and God, she wished she could slap him again. "I'm tired," she told him, and it was a rude way of asking him to leave.

Impervious to her discourtesy, he stayed rooted to the ground, a huge figure that blocked her doorway from her view, keeping the rain a noisy mystery. "You want me to leave," he drawled coolly, and it wasn't a question – just a statement, an observation, a confirmation that he understood. Still, he didn't budge.

She didn't know what that meant, but she twisted away, unable to face him any longer. He was draining her of every last bit of her strength. Before she could turn away completely, his hand reached out and grabbed hers. A gasp of unchecked pain slid out of her at the feeling of his strong fingers pressed into her raw skin. The explosion had burnt a layer of skin, leaving her hands sore and exposed. He released her hand almost immediately and muttered a string of obscenities that made her ears burn.

"Let me see," he stipulated firmly, and she found herself holding her hands out like a reprimanded child. His fingertips brushed against her skin with aching tenderness, and she was struck by what a tangle of contradictions he was. A complicated man, who was far beyond the grasp of her understanding. "It's a superficial burn," he diagnosed her reassuringly, but it sounded more like he was reassuring himself because Meredith wasn't worried. With great reluctance, he let her hands go and looked up into her face. "I didn't know," he confessed, self-condemning as always. It was an apology she didn't know what to do with.

"Derek," she said his name softly, like a reprimand, a prayer, an exclamation, a question. He left her undone – always, without fail.

He seemed to understand her whisper as an invitation, and he came closer, crowding her personal space, sharing the air she breathed. She didn't have the strength to push him away when his dark head began its slow descent. He was temptation personified, and for a moment she was powerless to resist his allure. Unconsciously her head angled opposite to his, and she moistened her lips before his claimed them. Warm steady hands cradled her elbows, and his pliant lips tugged hers apart, his warm coffee-tasting tongue sinking into her mouth possessively. She felt his kiss way down to her toes. He smelled like rain and expensive cologne worn lightly – to perfection. She was helplessly seduced, leaning into him, pressing herself to the concrete hardness under his black clothes. He trailed his hands up her arms, and she could see him on television again, aloof and detached. A man who had left her in the dust of his return to grace. She could see him outside Joe's bar, menacing and cruel, and she inured herself to his persuasive kiss. With more willpower than she knew she possessed, she pulled away, turning her head so that his open lips landed on her cheekbone. Not one to be discouraged, he kissed her there, the tip of his perfectly deformed nose brushing against her skin. "No," she whispered, placing one solid hand on his chest as if she could keep him away.

"Really?" he taunted her softly, brushing the backs of his fingers against one pouting nipple through the worn gray cotton.

Her breath left her in a slow puff, strangled by the sensuality of his practiced touch. Her breasts tingled and tightened with yearning. She closed her eyes against it – against him – and caught his fingers in one injured fist. "Stop," she ordered quietly, lowering his hand with a calm she did not feel.

He was amused by her resolve. She could tell as much from the undaunted smile that claimed his lips. "Whatever you want," he murmured silkily and stepped away. It was a blatant lie. Everything that transpired between them was driven by what _he _wanted. She was the queen of his chess set. He played her whichever way he pleased, and she obeyed.

"Leave, Derek," she demanded. "Please." Though her tone had softened, she knew her eyes were adamant.

Nodding slowly, he shoved both hands into his hair, dragging the wayward curl off his face. "Alright," he conceded, but he looked far from defeated. He swiveled on the heels of his gleaming leather shoes and strode towards her door. He was halfway through the frame when he paused and turned back to face her, a bemused ghost of a smile twitching on his lips.

"I'm glad you didn't die today."

His smile turned into something wickedly bewitching, and then he was gone.


	25. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: Still me, still don't own anything worth claiming.**  
**

Author's Note: Wow, three years. Off the shelf, dusted and out to play in the world again. Thank you for reading.

**Chapter 25  
**"Be my friend.  
Hold me; wrap me up.  
Unfold me, I am small and needy.  
Warm me up and breathe me."  
Breathe Me – Sia

* * *

Kathleen Shepherd was livid.

That much was obvious from the way her angry strides ate up the expansive Marriott suite in seven long steps. To an outsider, they would resemble stomps, but an outsider would not be privy to this conversation. This was Shepherd business, a skeleton in their family closet that they would throw back and forth like a hot potato. At the end of a day or a month or a decade of arguments and bitter words, they would polish the perfect ebony skull and soundly replace it on a shelf. Somewhere deep inside him, he wanted no part of the family closet, but he knew it was no longer a choice. He chose to resent it instead and mentally rifled through more skeletons as Kathleen went about it, pacing back and forth like a soldier marching to duty – adamant, unbending, focused. The heated tone of her low-pitched rant did not once falter, her lips moving in perfect synchrony to the choppy syllables of fury resonating against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Good God, it was giving him a headache just watching her. He also had last night's very fine single-malt scotch to thank for the migraine. And Meredith Grey, he silently admitted. The ease with which she edged past all his other thoughts and suddenly took center stage in his mind was both sobering and alarming. She was under his skin, _in his veins_, and for a few seconds he could think of nothing but her well-kissed lips and tousled golden hair as she'd stood in her foyer, ordering him to leave. Her gray eyes had shone with both lust and restraint, dilated pupils beckoning him, firm voice dismissing him.

He _could have_ stayed, and it tormented him. Another kiss, another caress, another whisper against the flawlessly smooth skin of her neck, and he would have had her trapped against the off-white wall, her hands tangled in his hair. She would have wanted him to stay. He knew that as well as he knew that she would have hated him for it in the morning.

"I'm searching for Rebecca's lovechild," Kathleen mimicked him in a voice loud enough to snap him back to the present.

Derek wondered at which point during his drinking spree last night he'd decided that leaving a message on Kathleen's phone regarding Helen's existence and her parentage was a good idea. _A great idea_, he remembered telling the stocky bartender, who had smilingly refreshed his diminishing drink.

_Fuck_. This wasn't good.

"You do not say that over the phone. You most certainly do not wait eleven years to say that while you're stinking drunk," she prattled on, pausing before the couch where he was perched tensely in the corner, his elbows on his knees, his head held firmly between both hands as if he was afraid it would loll should he release it. His blue eyes followed her form tiredly. Her narrowed gaze took him in with great disdain. "Well, Derek? Are you out of your freaking mind or am I overreacting?"

He wished he could chalk up her explosive arrival in Seattle – at his suite no less – to overreaction, but last night he had literally dropped a bomb in her lap. This morning the fuse had run too short, and she was unwilling to handle the debris of this explosion by herself. He was in no position to contest her presence or her attitude. He had to suck it up and own up to the transgressions he'd made in favor of Sofia, who was back in Manhattan, immune to the backlash of her own devious plans. There was no limit to how much he had come to detest the woman. "No, Kathy," he sighed finally, massaging his temples between thumb and forefinger. "You're right. I should have been more considerate when telling you about Helen," he conceded.

She resumed pacing, as if satisfied with his proclamation. "Helen," she said with sudden realization, shooting him a pained look over her shoulder. "That's her name? Helen Shepherd?"

"Helen-Michelle Shepherd," he replied softly, leaning back into the couch with resignation. He missed her terribly – teenage drama and celebrity obsessions, sour candy and boys deemed cute that made him feel fiercely protective.

"That's a lovely name," she murmured, and the very real quality of names and middle names slowed her down. Kathleen seemed incredibly sad when she claimed the arm chair across the room, the exhausted set of her shoulders falling against the cushions with a gentle whoosh. The lilac shadows under her eyes said she was tired. "How could you?" she asked seriously. "I have a niece, an almost teenager, whom I've never met. We didn't even know she existed. How could you keep her from us, Derek? Who took care of her when you were in prison?" The questions were fired in rapid succession and she was staring at him expectantly.

He found himself feeling strangely defensive. "I've given her the best of everything," he answered stonily. "She has a full-time nanny I happen to trust a lot and a very nice apartment in Fort George with security and very dependable facilities…"

"A child needs much more than your undeniable wealth, Derek. She needs love, attention and stability. She needs family," Kathleen stipulated firmly.

His headache forgotten, he glared at her. "_I_ love her, Kathleen. _I_ was her family until Sofia decided I deserved a trip to federal prison. Sofia never even asked about her, and _she_ has known about her for all eleven years of her life." She had never asked, but Derek had volunteered the information, naively believing that despite her façade of nonchalance, she loved Helen just as much as he loved her.

Kathleen was giving him her understanding-therapist look now, and Derek found the gentle scrutiny infuriating. "You obviously love the child a great deal. I'm not saying you don't. I'm just saying, Derek, it was obviously not enough." She seemed to regret the words as soon as they left her mouth and died to the silence in the room.

The accusation hit a nerve. _Not enough_. A recurring theme in his life, he thought sardonically. With that thought, he pasted his most convincing devil-may-care smile onto his lips. "Well then, I shouldn't have to worry about that now that you can all contribute to bringing up Rebecca's abandoned child. I'm certain our combined efforts will make her feel loved _enough_ to not run out on us." Like she'd run out on him, he filled in for himself. Kathleen's gaze softened on him, and he fought the urge to snap at her.

"Derek," she began on a tired sigh, but the ringing of his cell phone cut off whatever words of sympathy she was about to dish out.

Derek waved an impatient hand at her and came to his feet swiftly. He crossed the room to his ringing phone and grabbed it in all five fingers, grateful for the interruption. "Hello?" he said curtly, propping the slim contraption between cheek and shoulder as he walked towards the glass wall and stood there in appreciation of Mother Nature's fury. Everything was amok in the heart of Seattle's first honest-to-God storm. Elliot Bay was in a tizzy of frenzied motion, alive, frightened, tossed, rebellious. It was marvelous and spirited, and it reminded him very much of Meredith Grey. He looked away.

"_Hello, Doctor Shepherd?"_ the person on the other end was asking, a note of uncertainty to the man's steady voice.

"Speaking," he replied.

"_It's Gerard Hart,"_ the man declared.

Derek straightened and slipped a hand into the front pocket of the slacks he had hastily donned when Kathleen had made her untimely arrival earlier this morning. "Hello, Gerard. Have you made any progress?" he inquired, all professionalism and detachment.

"_I have an address. Your young lady has been staying at the Hilton under the name Helen of Tray,"_ said Gerard, an unmistakable chuckle resonating through his kind voice.

He found himself grinning with reluctant pride. "Helen of Tray, huh?" he repeated wryly.

"_You've got yourself a resourceful young lady there."_ And this time the other man let out a hearty laugh.

"Don't I know it," Derek muttered more to himself than to his listener, but he couldn't stop smiling. "Thank you, Gerard, I'll take care of it from here. Pass by the Marriott tonight at nine. I'll have the rest of your money ready for you," he promised to which Gerard replied with heartfelt good wishes. Ending the phone call, Derek slipped the phone into his pocket and turned to find his therapist of a sister watching him intently. He suppressed a groan and met her stare evenly.

"What was that all about?" she inquired.

"That was the PI I hired to track Helen down. She's been staying at the Hilton under the name Helen of Tray," he surmised, and her small smile told him she, too, found their niece's antics amusing.

"She's clever," she pointed out wistfully.

"Brightest kid in school," he said, and a wistful smile played against his lips. The pride in his voice could not be mistaken for anything else.

"You love her like your own child," Kathleen noted with the kind softness of the sympathetic mother he never had.

"I don't know how to love her any other way," he replied honestly, and the smile she flashed at him said she had nothing to say. Except she did, and he wouldn't like it one bit.

"In your message last night, you said something about Meredith Grey."

Derek froze en route to the lush bathroom, his chest clenching in the most disconcerting way. Whatever the hell he'd been thinking last night, his sister had no business knowing. He turned around slowly to face her, trying futilely to remember mentioning Meredith to Kathleen in his three minute message. He couldn't imagine the context. "Oh?" he prodded.

Her incisive stare turned reluctant at his puzzled look. "Have you seen her in Seattle?" she hedged, her left hand toying absently with a loose thread sticking out of the pale blue armchair.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and fiddled with the buttons, seeming very busy for a few moments. It was a ruse of indifference. When he looked up, she was regarding him as carefully as ever. He resented the cross-examination. "I went to see her last night," he stated with a shrug. _She almost died yesterday, and I kissed her because I needed to know she was alive. _He held the words in and slanted a half-smile at his inquisitive sister. He'd needed to feel alive, and Meredith Grey had the uncanny ability to make him _feel_.

"Oh," she murmured.

Pinning her with a no-nonsense look, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and crossed his arms before his bare chest. "What did I say?"

That wrung an odd smile out of her. "Something about you saving her, and she being too stubborn to see it or realize it." She waved her hand before her face like the words didn't make sense but he could see the fiery curiosity in her dark gaze. She was designing fairytales about him and Meredith Grey. The telltale twinkle in her eyes wasn't lost on him, but she couldn't have been farther from the truth.

He kept himself from saying all the harsh things that came to mind and gave her a humorless smirk. "That's ridiculous," he said dismissively.

Kathleen gave him a long telling look. "I'm sure it is."

* * *

"Meredith!"

Startled, Meredith looked up from the busy screen of her smartphone where a listing of Seattle apartments was loading on Craigslist. George O'Malley was rushing through the lobby, hurtling towards her like an enthusiastic pet dog, baby blue eyes gleaming with overflowing excitement. She hit the _close_ button and slipped the phone into her brown tote bag.

"Hey, George!" she greeted him with false enthusiasm.

When he was close enough, he placed both hands on her shoulders firmly. "Where are you going?" he asked, raising his eyebrows as his eyes trailed over her lightweight maroon sweater and slim-cut jeans.

"Family day," she said dismissively, shifting uncomfortably under his hands. _Family day_ a la Meredith, loosely translated into _father day_. Thatcher Grey had finally decided to call her since her return from the dead. He wanted to see her, he'd stammered over the phone, and she had wanted to use the empty foil of the energy bar she'd eaten to create fake static and pretend she hadn't heard him. The last time she had seen him, they had murmured strained greetings at her mother's funeral. He'd stayed for ten minutes, staring at the open coffin pensively before squaring his shoulders and walking away – much as he had done when she'd been a child. The time before that, it had been Carol's funeral. She didn't remember much about the sordid affair, but she remembered Thatcher crying like a baby. She remembered resenting him for it, for taking her mother's hand in his and sobbing _Ellis_, like together they could make the pain of losing their grandchild more bearable. Before the funerals, he had visited her often in Boston, always eager to babysit, always longing for more of Carol. After Carol's death, while her relationship with Ellis had grown stronger, her relationship with Thatcher had died a slow painful death.

"William Tray's kid is here," George was explaining, his hands fidgeting on her shoulders, like he was itching to be somewhere else. "He has back-to-back surgeries for the next four hours, but she insists on waiting around for him. I need you to keep an eye on her for an hour or so," he begged hastily. "There's a woman in the pit," he paused to draw in a deep breath and his voice dropped several octaves, "having spontaneous _orgasms_," he whispered, grinning unabashedly as he released her. "I really can't miss this, Mer," he said earnestly, giving her a pleading smile.

She mock-debated it for a moment, then heaved a great sigh and nodded. It wasn't like she was dying to be ushered into Thatcher's living room and seated like a good-girl child to bear the prying scrutiny of his fatherly gaze. That could definitely wait. "William Tray has a daughter?" she asked as an afterthought.

He shrugged. "I guess so. She does look a lot like him, has that blond thing going on. Smart kid, too. She's right over there," he pointed at a row of chairs several feet away where a small figure was seated, golden hair messily arranged about her slim shoulders. "Thank you so much, Mer. I owe you." That said, he brushed past her and hurried to the elevator before the metallic doors met.

Resigned to babysitting duty, she readjusted her tote on her shoulder and walked over to where a very jubilant young girl was now chattering away with Olivia. When she reached the nurse's side, she stopped mid-sentence and smiled at her kindly. "This is Doctor Grey," Olivia told the young Tray, who smiled up at her bashfully. "She'll be staying with you until your father gets out of surgery," she said reassuringly and mumbled something about work before striding towards the elevator, leaving a gaping silence in her wake.

Meredith stared at the young girl – who couldn't have been a day older than ten – for a moment longer than courtesy allowed, taking in her curly blond hair and sharp blue eyes – a shade of blue so familiar it made her uneasy. She dismissed the disconcerting thought and slipped her bag off her shoulder as she claimed the seat next to the kid. "Hey, I'm Meredith," she said, allowing the tote to hit the ground between her feet before she stuck her hand out.

"I'm Helen," said William Tray's child, smiling his smile with softer, fuller lips and smaller teeth, and she placed her hand in Meredith's, shaking it like she believed this was an official introduction. When their introductory handshake ended, Helen was still smiling and studying her curiously. "How come you're not wearing what they're all wearing?" She scrunched her nose in distaste as she pointed at the scrubs another doctor who hurried by was wearing.

Meredith imagined she found the outfit distasteful, and she smiled. "I'm off duty." She crinkled her nose, too, inspired by the child's honesty. "They're quite dreadful, huh?"

Her golden head bobbed in earnest consent. "They're ugly," she stated.

Laughing softly at the uncensored expression, she took in the child's expensive-looking clothes and prim shoes. "How did you end up here alone? Did your mother drop you off?" Being a hospital child herself, she was quite familiar with the concept of being dumped from one parent to the other. She sympathized with Helen Tray and her preppy outfits. Meredith herself had rebelled against them when she'd hit fifteen, preferring pink to blond and leather to plaid.

Helen shook her head. "My mother died giving birth to me," she said, and Meredith resisted the urge to slip a comforting arm around her. "My nanny brought me here. She's paranoid," she huffed, rolling her remarkably familiar eyes. "She told George to keep an eye on me until she gets back."

"Where did she run off to?"

The smile this time was rich with mischief and looked nothing like Doctor Tray. "The bank. We're running low on cash."

Meredith raised her eyebrows. "Low on cash," she repeated in a curious murmur.

"Where were you going?" Helen asked, turning the tables on her with surprising confidence.

"I was going to see my own father," she confessed, giving her a sideways smile, hoping the clever child couldn't detect the reservation in her voice.

"Oh," she muttered, and her little face fell. "I'm sorry you're stuck here with me. I swear I can wait alone," she promised, but Meredith could read the hesitancy in her eyes. Helen Tray did not want to be left alone, and Meredith understood all too well.

She settled back into her plastic chair. "Trust me, I'd rather be here than there," she said diplomatically, pleased to see the child's evident relief.

Helen was only quiet for a minute before she looked up at Meredith again, this time her blue eyes alight with confusion. "You don't like your father," she realized, more puzzled than anything.

_Ah, the innocence of youth._ Not all fathers were rock-star neurosurgeons with laughing brown eyes, gentle dispositions and crowns of golden hair. "I haven't seen him in a very long time," she replied tactfully.

"I haven't seen my father ev… in a very long time, too," she tripped over the words and smiled shyly. "I live in New York," she told Meredith's inquisitive eyes.

"Alone?" Meredith sputtered, utterly horrified at the prospect. What kind of father sent their child to live in a city all the way across the country?

"I live with my nanny. My uncle rents an apartment for us and visits every day, but he was away for two years, traveling somewhere. Now he's back, too, but he doesn't visit as often. I haven't seen him in a while either. He's very busy, like my dad," she summed it all up neatly, but Meredith recognized the bleakness of the picture. Helen Tray was lonely, even though she loved and had the love of two extremely busy men, who were lousy at managing their time.

"Did your uncle fly out here with you?"

Her smile turned uncomfortable, and she shrunk into her seat as if the question baffled her. "No," she decided finally. "He's still in New York." Meredith was about to ask what brought her here, when the girl turned the tables again. "Do you have any kids?"

* * *

Kathleen's hand was cool on the inside of his elbow. He could feel the tremor in her touch flutter against the bare skin of his arm, and he reached for her hand, stilling it against him. He turned from Seattle Grace's sliding glass doors to search for her worried face behind him and was met with a halfhearted smile of uncertainty. Her captured hand absorbed the warmth of his larger warmer one before he let it go and smiled at her with false reassurance.

"We can't wait much longer. If she sees him – if _he_ sees _her_…" he let the words trail into a telling silence and gestured with his hand towards the door.

It took her a full minute to nod her head and heave a great breath. "Right, let's," she muttered under her breath and walked past him through one pair of the thick glass doors and then the other.

They paused just inside, suspended in the warmth of the vast hospital, surveying their surroundings cautiously like two caged animals released in the wilderness. Derek's heart paused defiantly when his gaze landed on a smiling Meredith Grey whose twinkling silver eyes were gazing down at Helen – _his _Helen. He was hardly aware of taking hold of Kathleen's sturdy wrist and tugging her towards him as if to shield his eyes from the unfolding scene. He could not afford the romanticized fancies his traitorous mind concocted. He could not afford Meredith Grey breaking down another one of his barricades.

Kathleen was staring at him when he tore his riveted gaze away from them. "Is that the infamous Meredith Grey?" she asked with soft irony, her warm brown eyes shifting between his tumultuous features and the oblivious pair with dawning realization. She gently removed his hand from hers.

He did not want insight into her revelations. "In the flesh," he replied, his voice just as soft as hers had been, but colder and self-derisive.

She flashed a look of puzzled concern at his grim smile. "And this is Helen?" she probed, her stare encompassing the child with great tenderness and longing.

"Yes," he confirmed, swallowing past the gritty feeling in his throat. He'd missed her, all girly and pink – slightly rebellious and fiercely loyal.

"She's beautiful," Kathleen said wistfully, and he followed her entranced stare back to the golden duo.

They both were: Helen bursting with the luminance of a beautiful child and Meredith ethereal in her beauty – like a goddess and her equally gifted child. From a distance, they looked untarnished, untouched by mankind, yet they were both ironically damaged. Someone careless who was privileged with access to their hearts had made each of them subject to neglect. He was the culprit in Helen's story. He wondered about Meredith as he took a step forward, looking at Kathleen with unpleasant resolve. "Let's go."

She followed him for the length of the distance that separated them from the twosome, but their presence went unnoticed until Derek cleared his throat loudly. The unreservedly abashed smile on Meredith's lips dissolved as her blue-gray stare drifted from Helen's upturned awed face to his own. He found his gaze forced to her piercing eyes, and he tried to read the dozen emotions his presence evoked but she shut him out too quickly. Her silvery eyes cooled dramatically, tempered by suspicious caution, guarded by resurrected walls and barriers.

His jaw ticked with irritation at her subtle refutation.

"Uncle Derek!" Helen exclaimed half-heartedly, leaving no room for the encroaching silence.

He snapped back to attention and drew a calm smile on his lips as he took stock of the situation. Kathleen was hiding behind him as if she wished to be nothing but a spectator to the debacle. At Helen's declaration, Meredith's eyes went wide with wonder and her pink lips parted in shocked consternation. "Aw, Ella, you don't sound so happy to see me," he teased, pointedly ignoring Meredith's wide-eyed stare as he imparted with a cool "Hello, Doctor Grey."

Helen's baby face softened with childish guilt, and she smiled at him reluctantly. "I'm happy to see you," she insisted, her enthusiasm innocent. "Am I in a lot of trouble?" she asked in a small voice, looking up at him with a gaze identical to his in color, but he had long since lost the ability to look so earnest. Unblemished. He was tainted by darkness, robbed of any semblance of virtue. Meredith looked at him, too, equally anxious as if his decision mattered to her, as if his winsome niece had managed to woo her with her charming knack for uncolored honesty. They looked like little girls, caught whispering secrets in the dark way past their bedtime, beguiling a besotted parent into letting them off the hook.

He cleared his throat and stretched his hand towards Helen. She put her little one in his unhesitatingly, and he tugged her to her feet easily. "We'll see about that, Ella," he said uncertainly, wrapping her lanky body – pink sweater, white jeans and suede boots – in a warm bear hug, lifting her off the ground in the process. She wrapped skinny arms around his neck, giggling infectiously. "I missed you, kiddo," he muttered, and it felt like the most honest thing he'd said in days. When he reset her feet on the ground, he could feel Kathleen's trembling anxiety and Meredith's tentative surprise. _Well, Doctor Grey, I guess I'm human_. His hand still on Helen's shoulder, he stepped aside, bringing Kathleen into clear view. Helen studied her curiously, quick intelligent eyes narrowing in wonder. "This is my friend, Kathleen," he said in way of introduction. "Kathleen, Helen."

Helen stuck her small hand out, and Derek suppressed a tender smile when Kathleen let out a startled chuckle and shook hands with her niece for the first time. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Kathleen," Helen said in an attempt to sound older than her eleven years.

"You, too," Kathleen answered in a miraculously smooth voice.

Derek caught the shimmer in her eyes with a frown. _Don't cry, Kathy._ "Kathleen, this is a… friend of mine, Doctor Meredith Grey," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm that was lost only on the youngest of their quartet. The two women shook hands with quietly murmured pleasantries. "We have to go," he announced suddenly, and Helen's eyes flashed up at him incredulously.

"No!" she cried. "He's almost done. He's coming, right Meredith?" She looked to Meredith with pleading eyes.

Meredith nodded supportively. "Yes, Will-" she paused and backtracked. "_Doctor Tray_ will be out of surgery in a half hour at most," she informed them with a professional smile.

Derek was uncomfortable with her use of William Tray's first name, so he scowled at her darkly. "We'll be leaving _now_, just after I have a word with Doctor Grey," he stated, and they understood it was an edict. Meredith's friendly countenance turned into a glare.

"No, Uncle Derek! I won't leave! I…"

"Helen-Michelle Shepherd," he interrupted her tirade in a firm no-nonsense tone that made tears spring into her beautiful eyes. He almost felt guilty, but he had been unfamiliar with guilt for such a long time. "Kathleen, will you and Helen wait for me in the car?"

His sister nodded dutifully, still shell-shocked by the very reality of the situation.

Helen rushed past him and threw her arms around Meredith Grey, who smiled warmly at the impulsiveness of the affectionate act. She smoothed a motherly hand over his niece's wavy golden locks and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Derek could barely watch.

"Don't cry, sweetie," she murmured soothingly, and he saw her brush a couple of stray tears from Helen's face with her thumbs. "You'll come back tomorrow." She shot a defying look at him over the bowed golden head.

"They're taking me back to New York," she whispered achingly, and Derek wished he was somewhere – anywhere – else.

"I don't believe that," Meredith said, but her eyes said she did. She believed he would deprive this desperate child of seeing her father. She didn't know how much worse it was – that he would deprive this desperate child of _knowing_ her father and her family.

Through her tears, Helen smiled a heartbreakingly pretty smile. "It was nice to meet you, Meredith. Carol was so lucky to have you," she said sadly, and Meredith's entire demeanor became cloaked with a sadness so familiar it took him back to the cabin.

"Come on, Helen," Kathleen was saying.

"I'll see you tomorrow, sweetie. I'll make sure Doctor Tray knows that you're coming," Meredith smiled with such angelic reassurance that Helen would have believed her, but Derek knew his dark expression was enough to denounce that declaration. Angel and demon, he thought sardonically.

"Run along, Ella, I'll only be a minute," he said softly as if by speaking gently he could pretend to be gentle.

Kathleen ushered Helen out of Seattle Grace Hospital quickly, and he watched them until they disappeared past the double glass doors. When he turned back to Meredith Grey, she was regarding him with enough cynical expectation to make him want to feel his head for diabolical horns. She came to her feet, standing a head below him, but it was enough to take away whatever disadvantage she felt at sitting before him.

"What kind of game are we playing today?" she wondered aloud, and her voice was deceptively low, smooth – almost husky, like an erotic promise.

He resisted the urge to lock metaphorical horns with her. "Can we speak somewhere more private?" he requested, making it sound more like a question than a demand. He cast a hurried look over their buzzing surroundings. "It's a private matter," he continued.

She sized him up for a few seconds and then nodded tersely. She turned and walked towards a set of offices lining a long wall, tucked beneath a staircase to a visible second floor that formed a ringed balcony above them. He took in the architecture to avoid staring at the elegant sway of her hips, caught in narrow, snug black jeans. They were inside an office moments later. It was small, and a computer was whirring insistently in the background, the idle screen black. He stood by the desk as she quietly pushed at the door, leaving it ajar. He could see a sliver of the hospital through it but not enough to make out anything substantial. She was as skittish as an animal in a trap, and he couldn't resist observing her in silence.

"Well?" she prodded, crossing her arms below her breasts in a mixture of impatience and defensiveness.

"William Tray doesn't know about Helen," he said without compunction. "I need you to keep it on the low, and tell whoever else knows to keep it on the low – at least for a couple of days."

"What do you mean he doesn't know about her? He doesn't know he fathered a child? Your sister died giving birth to her? He didn't know she was pregnant? Why didn't you tell him? How does she know about him? What kind of insanity is this?" she sputtered, angry because somehow she had gotten herself embroiled in another one of his intricate webs. He had saved her life, and she suddenly owed him everything. While nursing her back to life, he had stolen her soul.

"It's complicated," he replied simply, unwilling to divulge the intricacies of the situation.

"What's happening in a couple of days?"

"I'm going to tell him the truth myself."

She seemed to debate this for a few seconds, as if she didn't know what to make of his noble pursuit. Then she looked away in resignation, carefully extricating herself from this 'kind of insanity'. "Fine, is that all?"

He raised a dark eyebrow at her complacence. "No," he hissed, his assessing gaze dropping to her crossed arms. He laid his hand on the intersection and gently loosened them. Through her thin sweater, he could feel the heat of her skin. It stirred a deep hunger inside him, an unsightly beast that always crawled out to play when Meredith Grey made an appearance. "Who is Carol?"

She lifted her chin the fraction of an inch, fighting the sadness that clawed at her. "It's complicated," she said finally, regarding him with defiance and moving away just enough for his hand to slip off her arm.

"Yes," he agreed slowly and stepped forward, lifting his hand to her face. "It seems complicated."

She took a step backwards, and his hand returned empty. "Leave me alone, Derek." It was a plea.

He let out a bark of sinister laughter that widened her bright eyes. He suddenly felt tired, exhausted, like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders and refused to budge. "Everywhere I go, there you are," he mused, and she looked away as if she could not stand to look into his tortured eyes. "Even in the middle of _fucking nowhere_!"

She shrunk physically but still managed to stand a little taller. "I have to go," she said in a clear, even voice and started to edge past him, but Derek caught her before she could take another step.

He stood close, much too close for anything appropriate. He crowded her space and breathed her air like she sucked the air from every other thought in his mind and dominated his consciousness. He stood just like that, his fingers easily snaring her slim elbows, his chest mere inches from hers, his chin level with the top of her head. His darkest thoughts had him punishing her by making her want him as much as he incomprehensibly wanted her. The beast inside him just wanted to lash out at her, blame her for the darkness, berate her for her betrayal. "This is either a cruel joke the universe is playing on me – on us both. Or you've somehow managed to place yourself in my path, so we could break each other a little more. Either way, you're everywhere. You're in my cabin in the middle of no man's land. You're with Mark Sloan, in Richard Webber's hospital – with Helen! Tell me Meredith, do such coincidences happen in real life? What do you think?"

Her silence was deafening, but the cool gray eyes that found his spoke volumes. He understood it with a clarity that frightened him. A small part of her craved these little interludes, like morsels of food that satiated her soul, but the rest of her begged to flee because she felt exposed – naked. "Let me go." She made no move to physically struggle against him, but her very soul that fed on him also warred with him.

"Or what?" he asked quietly. "You'll slap me again?"

She let his questions die a slow painful death and moved away from him as soon as his hold on her loosened. Wordlessly, she sidestepped him, left the office and slammed the door shut in her wake.


	26. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: All Shonda's – I'm a poor college student (again). Hello graduate studies world.

Author's Note: A chapter on the longer side even after cutting just over 2000 words out. There's slightly mature-ish content towards the end, please skip if offended. Thanks for picking this up again. I really appreciate your reviews, and I hope you enjoy it.

**Chapter 26  
**"Under your spell again  
I can't say no to you  
Crave my heart and it's bleeding in your hand  
I can't say no to you  
Shouldn't let you torture me so sweetly  
Now I can't let go of this dream  
I can't breathe but I feel."  
Good Enough – Evanescence

* * *

Meredith was sitting on a gurney in the deserted underground hallways of Seattle Grace, absently flipping through Chuck Eaton's chart. It was neither night nor day – the obscure darkness made time irrelevant. Minutes blurred and a neon light flickered pitifully to throw pale white light against the black ink. A few feet away, a vending machine rumbled insistently, asserting its presence. The yellow bulb that lit the cheap candy inside also wavered, almost as if the two were in cahoots and had decided it was time for an early Christmas.

Chuck Eaton had lung cancer and a smoking habit he could not shake. It was unlikely he would make it till Christmas.

George had kissed her last night.

She couldn't quite wrap her mind around it. She couldn't remember if she'd kissed him back. She remembered, with stark clarity, Derek lashing out at her with deep-seated anger. She remembered feeling too drained to retaliate. The next hour had found her at her father's townhouse, making small talk to the music of awkward pauses. He'd stuttered out phrases to declare his gladness about her survival and his deep regret over her mother's death. The sordid affair had ended with Thatcher Grey's tearful confession that he missed Carol. She'd swallowed the lump in her throat and bid him a tearless goodbye. Then George had kissed her.

She could almost taste it now, hesitation, tepid beer, and midnight mistakes. His clammy hands had found the indents at her waist, sitting there with reverence as his lips claimed hers. His sweet words had left a balmy cadence to their tangled tongues. _"I know I'm not a world renowned surgeon. I know I'm not a national hero. I'm not any of the things you have gone for in the past. I know. But I would never leave you. I would never hurt you. And I will never stop loving you."_ He'd been talking about Derek because George knew. He'd been sitting quietly in the backseat, sipping latte out of a paper cup, as Izzie had grilled her about Derek's post-bomb visit days ago. _"He cares about you, Meredith!"_ George had connected the dots of her confession to Seattle PD, Derek Shepherd's vindication and his sudden appearance in Seattle. A wry smile crossed her lips at her own realization that these three seemingly related events actually had no bearing on one another. The self-derogatory humor died quickly as she recalled the profound hurt in George's eyes when she'd pushed him away. With George's mouth slanted against hers at an angle, all she had been able to think about was Derek. Derek clad in black, standing in her hallway, breaking down her walls. Derek in a king-size bed, gazing down at her with burning hunger as his fingers found the center of her body.

"_I'm sorry, George. I can't."_ And that reminded her of Derek in Zachary Preston's attic, his face flushed with desire, asking her why the hell not and calling her out on wanting it – wanting him. This had been different, and last night George hadn't called her out on anything. He'd taken back his hands as if he'd been burnt, then he'd turned away and left her as he had promised he wouldn't.

She closed her eyes against the memory. She had kissed George back, but then she couldn't because somewhere in her mind Derek was lurking, watching her, taunting her with non-promises and empty darkness. When she reopened her eyes, the deserted hallway was still there, untouched by time, lights blinking with soothing consistency. She liked the solitude, the shadows, the constants, the broken souls who wandered between unadorned cement walls, as if they could be fixed by the naked reality of the place.

The joy of her pseudo-solitude was short-lived. Mark Sloan shifted on the gurney beside her, reminding her of his presence – another lost soul who could not stop wandering long enough to realize his pain. The old mattress groaned, and Meredith looked up from the chart to find him peering over her shoulder, much closer than anticipated.

"This one's a goner," he remarked before turning back to his chart and scribbling his signature across a release form.

"What?"

He glanced at her briefly before picking up another chart from a short stack he balanced against the side of his thigh. "Invasive non-small-cell, history of COPD, chain smoker, you know the drill."

She sighed. "Sometimes _a little_ sensitivity would be nice," she muttered, fingertips skimming over Chuck's complex history of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. Mark was right. As Chuck had eloquently phrased it earlier that morning: _"I'm dying, dear."_

Mark shrugged, but his gaze narrowed on her as if he was trying to understand the bite in her words. Then he leaned back and set his broad shoulders against the wall with resolve. "I have a fifteen year-old, Jake Burton, with a severe case of _lionitis_. Chief has called in Derek Shepherd, neurosurgeon extraordinaire," he scoffed, tearing out a page with more force than necessary. The paper succumbed to his display of violence, splitting in half along a jagged line.

She tried to swallow past her racing heart but snapped the chart in her hands closed instead, ignoring the loud clap of metal bindings. Mark looked at the chart and then back at her face tellingly. "What do you mean he called him in?" she pressed, her fingers tightening around the folder. This could not be happening.

"He's with Jake now," he answered, making a show of balling up the shards of paper. He was testing her. She could read it in the way his gaze scanned her features studiously, like he could read their history by measuring the pitch of her voice when she spoke about him.

She was afraid no facial expression could assimilate what Derek Shepherd had taken from her. Today, it was easier to understand Mark and his anger. Today, she could still feel Derek's hands around her elbows, could still smell him in her hair. His words still echoed in her mind. _"Tell me, Meredith, do such coincidences happen in real life?"_ The little room had shuddered with his frustration. His eyes, like shards of flint, had spoken of nothing but a sense of desperate need, as if every part of him was reaching out to her but his mind wouldn't let him touch her. Cruelty had become his defense, the surefire way to keep her at arm's length while holding her close. She had found no words to say to his ruse of indifference. She couldn't pretend that having him close didn't make her wish he would pull her into him and she would cease to exist without him.

Today, she resented Derek Shepherd, and she was aching with the need to watch him through the hospital blinds.

"Meredith?"

She looked into Mark's inquisitive eyes and found apprehension. "You still hate him," she said slowly.

He turned away as if she'd slapped him. "How can I not?" he spat the bitter words through a sardonic smile.

"Every reason you've had to hate him vanished when he was vindicated."

Mark let out a chuckle that was full of his past, haunted, like he too wished he could forget. "You don't know _anything_, Meredith." Shaking his head, he looked away from her to stare at the wall before him, summoning apparitions she could not see. "Addison didn't just cheat on him and leave him. It wasn't over for her. She pined for him, and she suffered his cruelty for a long time before his sister shot her to death," he spoke softly, pausing to fling a stack of papers to the far end of the gurney and rake his fingers through his hair. "He might as well have shot her himself."

Her body shrank away from him, as if she wished to distance herself from his words. "She slept with you," she said quietly. "She _stayed_ _with you_."

He laughed, but it was an awful sound that made her feel sick in the pit of her stomach. He was such a handsome man, irreparably broken and forever in love with a dead woman. "Meredith," he sighed. "Don't you understand? It was a cry for attention. His indifference killed her. She was a vibrant, beautiful, brilliant woman – a world-class surgeon who looked like a goddess. He didn't _see_ her, and that killed her long before Rebecca Shepherd borrowed Daddy's revolver."

"Do you miss her?" she asked and felt incredibly sad for Mark Sloan's predicament.

Heaving in a deep breath, he averted her stare, his gaze falling on the gently rumbling vending machine. It seemed quiet in the wake of his rage. When his eyes met hers, he had already sheltered whatever wound she had exposed. "This isn't about me, babe. This is about _you_, and your infatuation with a man who may not be a murderer in the literal sense, but if you get stuck on him, which you clearly are, he will kill you as surely as he killed her. And, Meredith, most days you look like you need somebody to bring you to life, not bury you. Don't disappear into him. He has that effect on people. He has shadows. Don't become his shadow," he beseeched her, his hand finding the listless weight of hers on the gurney. He gave her fingers a light squeeze, holding on like he could make this mean something.

She stared into Mark Sloan's striking, solemn gaze and could only see Derek. Not quite as earnest, Derek stared back at her with his damaged soul lingering in his eyes, daring her to love him. Sliding her hand away from Mark's, she tucked it against her body. "Don't worry about me," she said and hopped off the gurney in one fluid motion.

She favored Mark with a fleeting smile. _It's much too late to go back now._

* * *

"Let's just say, it's been a really, really long day," Derek said into the phone, propping the slim device between cheek and shoulder as he scribbled his signature across Jake Burton's time-of-death report. "How's Helen doing?"

"_I'm sorry to hear that, hun. Helen is alright. She's been chattering nonstop about William Tray. I think she's memorized every online article she came across. It's heartbreaking,"_ Kathleen sighed.

He echoed the sound with a deep exhale, set aside the papers and took hold of the phone again. The conversation with William Tray had been cut short by Mark Sloan bursting into the doctors' lounge to discuss Jake's condition. In any case, it hadn't been going well. William's face had gone pale as a sheet, and after a beat of silence, he'd fired a series of questions Derek couldn't remember if he tried. He had been dubious, skeptical, his dark gaze narrowing to accusatory slits of disbelief until Derek had pulled Helen's photograph out of his wallet. That had invited more silence – heavy this time around, almost breathless. Then William Tray had been furious. "He wants to meet her tomorrow," he told Kathleen now, leaving out the incredulous anger in the other man's voice.

He was met with another silence – another punctuation mark in a day that seemed to be full of them. This one was all Kathleen, heartbroken and guttural. William Tray would want custody of his daughter. He was the kind of man who needed to do the right thing – be a good parent, marry the young, foolish girl he'd impregnated. Derek both respected and resented him. He knew his sister felt it was far too soon for them to be robbed of their niece.

"Fair is fair, Kathy. He's her father," he whispered to her unspoken protests. The silence was beginning to eat at him like a persistent ache that just wouldn't fade. "How did Nancy take it?" he prodded and could hear Helen in the background, asking Kathleen for a glass of milk.

"_There was cursing."_

Nancy must have been furious. His eldest sister was the poster-girl for control freaks. She did not appreciate blind spots. She deplored surprises. This curveball couldn't have gone well, and that was one conversation Derek was glad he'd avoided – for now anyway. "She's mad at me," he stated matter-of-factly.

"_More at Sofia actually,"_ she said with a smile in her voice. This inordinately pleased her. Nancy especially hated being one-upped by her mother.

"Finally somebody in this family with a little sense," he teased, but the humor was heavy at best and Kathleen couldn't conjure a breath of laughter for his sake.

"_We can't lose her. It's too soon."_

"William won't keep her from us," he reassured her, ignoring the pangs of guilt that speared through him. He was undeniably the villain in this story – the veritable big bad. At the time, keeping Sofia's and Becky's secrets had seemed like the most important thing in the world. But that was before the three bullet holes in Addison's night-shirt. That was before the end of the world as he had known it. He wondered if Helen would later come to resent him and recognize him as the man who had isolated her from the people who would love her for the rest of her life.

"_I've booked us on a flight to New York on Sunday morning,"_ Kathleen told him, edging past his dark thoughts.

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. Three more days of Seattle and Meredith Grey. Three more days of endless rain and raging frustration. He didn't think it was wise to make plans to return to New York before settling matters with William, but Kathleen had patients and so did he. "That's great, Kathy. We'll catch up some more when I'm back." He said goodbye to her, told her to give Helen a kiss from him and ended the call.

He started walking down the hallway towards the locker rooms. Maybe he'd go to the bar across the street and nurse a tumbler of single-malt scotch. Chief Webber, dressed in jeans and a red sweater, was heading down the stairs. He raised his hand in greeting when their eyes met. Derek waved back politely. His chest tightened with inexplicable yearning when a hassled Meredith Grey collided face-on with the Chief in her rush to scurry up the stairs. Richard caught her by the arms. Her slender arms disappeared into Richard's large hands. He tried to stop dwelling on how small she looked in Richard's shadow. Fragile. Breakable. From a distance, Derek could see Richard's lips move in a slew of mute words. She nodded dutifully like an obedient child, and he gave her arms a gentle pat before letting her go. She hurried the rest of the way, golden hair soft and loose about her slender shoulders. Oblivious to his presence and his watchful gaze, she knocked on the door to an on-call room, waited for a few seconds and then walked in, closing the door behind her.

Derek stared after her, frozen en route to the locker rooms. He should have left. He should have taken the twelve steps that would leave him at the door to his locker. But he couldn't. It was almost as if his body had a will of its own. It wanted no part of the madness in his head. It gravitated towards her with a certainty that made him feel ill. Impulse won over reason, as it often did with matters of the heart, but Derek refused to acknowledge his heart's involvement in any of this. Meredith Grey was an anomaly, and that was the only reason he sought her like an addict sought his next fix. He could barely remember the purposeful steps that left him at the door to the on-call room. He glanced up and down the empty hallway then twisted the doorknob and quietly slipped inside.

* * *

She was growing tired of the sounds of her own sadness.

Long, lonely sighs rocked her body from head to foot. The gentle rasp of her quiet sobs ricocheted against bare walls. The grimy, salty taste of her tears was revolting. The last time she had felt this way, her car had veered off the dark, rainy Seattle road and made a new home out of an old pine tree. The last time she had felt this way, she had wanted to die because she missed Carol, and she missed her mother. She _hated_ her mother; it was her voice that kept her earth-bound. _Grey women are not quitters, Meredith._ But hadn't _she_ quit? Hadn't Carol quit? Why did she have to be the one carrying the torch?

She was making a mess of things. She knew this with stark clarity as she switched on a bedside lamp in the on-call room. It was her destiny to bring suffering to everyone who deigned to love her. George was hurting. He'd emerged from the locker room this evening with his once shaggy hair sheared close to his scalp, and he wouldn't look at her. Mark was hurting, but it wasn't love for her that gnawed at his insides. It was his hatred for Derek Shepherd that festered inside him like a vicious disease that couldn't rip free. And Derek – Derek was broken. Like a shattered pane of glass, his broken pieces tore into everything around him, until he was swimming in a bloodbath of his own creation.

As if summoned by her blackest thoughts, Derek stepped into the on-call room and closed the door. He did it calmly like his sudden intrusion didn't send the world spinning drunkenly off its axis. With her heart lodged firmly in her throat, she thirstily drank in the sight of him. He was wearing dark blue scrub pants, but he had traded in the matching v-neck for a light gray polo shirt. It was disarming, that shirt, the idea that he had started to change and then gotten caught up with something more pertinent. The three buttons at the base of his throat were undone, and the soft material clung to his chest in a way that emphasized every agonizing line of muscle. The defined angles of his hard-jaw, dark with two days' worth of stubble, were cast into sharp relief by the dim golden light. His black hair had finger-trails in it, a tell-tale sign of frustration. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the scant light. When he found her, she was propped against the table, backlit in the small, empty room. He stood frozen by the door, staring at her as if she'd intruded on his private time. It looked like he didn't know quite what to make of her presence.

He confounded her. She was unable to stop herself from wanting to stare back at him, yet unable to look at him for more than a few seconds. The unspoken rolled off him in waves of accusation and crawled over her skin like venomous insects.

"Don't," she interrupted the silence with a soft-spoken syllable. She wanted to sound firm, to shield her vulnerability against him. She wished he would turn around and leave, put an end to this before it even began. She desperately wanted him to stay.

He was singing a different tune tonight. She realized this with dread as his gaze mellowed to something deceptively kind. "Don't?" he echoed and cocked his head to the side like a curious animal who didn't understand the intricacies of human complexity.

She drew in a tremulous breath, promising herself for the hundredth time that she was immune to his impenetrable façade. "Don't start, Derek. Not today," she said, her voice raw, her hands running over her face.

He contemplated her for a few breathless seconds. He smiled at her then, a familiar cynical smile that was not borne of genuine happiness but some twisted notion that happened to amuse him for a fleeting moment. "What have you done?" he wondered aloud as if he wasn't asking her but making a game of guessing her plight.

Lifting her gaze to his, she encountered deep blue eyes bearing into her with frightening intensity. He didn't try to hide the condemnation loitering behind his eyes. _What have you done? Who have you betrayed today? _She ignored the sharp, twisting knife buried in her chest and looked away. "I hurt someone I care about."

The declaration made him shrug nonchalantly, but he was still rooted to the spot as if he was afraid of what he would do should he foray deeper into the room. "We all hurt the people we love," he said.

She shook her head almost vehemently but couldn't bring herself to look at him again. "No, we don't. I was sad and it was unfair." And it was one in her series of wrongs that couldn't be made right.

He leaned back against the door, crossing his arms before his chest. His arms were muscular and heavy. He was beautiful and untouchable, so close yet the gaping chasm between them seemed infinite. "What did you do?" he pressed, and when he sensed her hesitation he chuckled, a low rich sound that made her mouth feel hot and dry. "You can tell me, Meredith. I'm your friend." There was a dark promise in his dancing gaze as the word rolled off his tongue silkily. _Friends._ It was a polished act – his voice and his countenance, the charming tilt of his dark head. He was the picture of everything she had ever wanted. He could shatter her like a worthless figurine, burn her alive, and she would still crave him like a besotted fool.

"You're not my friend," she muttered and pressed the heels of her hands against the table.

He lifted one sleek eyebrow, and she tried not to fixate on how attractive it was. "Yes, I am. I could be. I'm a very good friend." The corner of his lips curled in a suggestive smile that sent her heart slamming into her stomach.

"We can't be friends," she said with cold finality. It was absurd. He was absurd to even suggest it, cruel to taunt her with the possibility.

He knew he had unnerved her. She could tell as much from the wicked light in his eyes when she finally met his gaze. "We could be friends," he countered conversationally, for all the world as if they belonged here in this little empty room where it was dark and uncomfortably warm, and the world ceased to exist. "You'd be lucky to have me."

"How? How can we be friends?" It was easier to humor him, even if she sounded like a wounded bird.

The smile he flashed at her said he was pleased that she was playing along to his little pretense that this was perfectly natural, that they were not both hopelessly damaged beyond recognition. It was heartbreakingly short-lived – his smile – but it stole her breath. "We could hang out," he suggested, not sounding innocent in the least. His teeth had taken hold of a wound and were about to rip into it callously. "We could meet, have coffee, and discuss your relationship with Mark Sloan or Carol – whoever she is."

She swallowed tightly past all the grit in her throat. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of crying in front of him. "Right," she breathed tonelessly.

She heard him move before he loomed closer. Two short steps, sneakers swooshing against the impersonal tiles. "We could," he insisted, and despite the mocking twist to his stance, there was something fierce about this new attack. "It would be fun. I could be your friend Meredith."

He was standing too close for comfort. Her body acted out of self-preservation, shying away from the magnetic pull of his. A few steps left her standing with her back pressed to the wall beside the narrow bunk beds. It was safer here but her heart wouldn't slow its tripping rhythm. "No, we can't be friends." Her voice carried differently from this new perch where his eyes had followed her impatiently. Later she would think the move was the stupidest thing she had done.

He followed her mindlessly. She pushed back into the wall, but there was nowhere to go. One step forward and their bodies would touch. She stood very still, taunted by her lack of options, and raised her chin to peer at his looming face. Their eyes met and locked, gray and indigo, intense and cool. "Is it because you kissed that boy?" he almost sneered and brought his hands up to rest palms down against the wall on either side of her head. "The intern, George O'Malley? You could really do better you know," he said it critically like her taste was their main point of discussion. Had he heard her telling Cristina while nursing a coffee over the mezzanine's balcony? "It was just a kiss. You've done much worse with me and you thought I was a murderer. We all do terrible things."

"I didn't think you were a murderer. You know that," she said, and to her mortification, her voice had sunk to an intimate whisper. The dark room swallowed them whole, the warmth embracing them like a hazy dream she couldn't wake up from.

He smiled his cynical little smile and moved one hand to her face. She could feel the warmth of his long tapered fingers as they hovered by her cheek, not quite touching her. "For a while you didn't. Then you did again. Was it Mark Sloan?" he asked and brushed her cheek with his knuckles. He stroked the soft skin gently, watching his fingers with rapt fascination.

"I have to go," she stated and caught his hand with her own, dragging it away from her face.

His hand returned to wall beside her head. He had caged her in, and he knew it. "No you don't," he corrected, and he looked almost pained. Up close he was much easier to read. His clenched jaw ticked with irritation or frustration or both. "You just got here for a 30-minute break."

He had been watching her. It was a disconcerting thought that he should go to such lengths to corner her in an on-call room. "I want to go," she whispered with understated dignity. She stared hard at his chest as if she could will him away.

He ignored her now, and she tried not to think of how close his nose was to hers, how his rough breaths ghosted over her cheek enticingly. He smelled of scrub soap and something subtle like deodorant or commercial soap. It made her dizzy. It scared her. It made her yearn for things that were better left buried. "You know Helen wouldn't tell me anything about this Carol?" Her breath hitched at the sound of the name, and he paused to watch her face. "You flinch every time I say her name," he observed. "Carol," he repeated, and she fought a physical ache. "There, flinch."

She decided to play along a little longer. It would keep her from this desperate wanting. "Why wouldn't she tell you?" she asked and was secretly glad of the child's reticence.

"She said I should ask you," he said with wonder. His proximity was becoming unbearable. "It sounded more mature than anything going on in my head," he confessed with a self-mocking smirk.

With nothing to say, she dared to meet his piercing gaze. _Let me go_. She wanted to speak the words aloud, but her voice was tangled somewhere in her chest. He captivated her, absorbed her like no other man had ever done before. Later she would tell herself she hadn't seen it coming, but in that moment it was completely inevitable. With his hands resting against the wall, he lowered his head, agonizingly slow, giving her every chance for a reprieve. Their breaths sowed harshly in and out of their lungs, creating a gentle racket in the room. She was oblivious to it when his lips settled against hers. He didn't kiss her – not quite. He only brushed his lips against hers, once, twice, then he was content to rest his mouth against hers, breathing her in. He wasn't touching her anywhere else, but her body felt electrified, her blood hot and thick in her veins. Her hand lifted and nestled in the natural indent that marked the middle of his chest. Muscles, sleek and controlled, leapt under her touch, and she quivered in response. God, she would faint from the headiness of it all.

She was categorizing the different tastes and textures of him when his mouth moved against hers with an animalistic growl. Suddenly, she was being kissed thoroughly. His tongue was alive, warm, moist. It collected her breath from the seam of her lips, traced the row of her teeth until she opened her mouth, and he was inside it. He teased her own timid tongue with two flicks before exploring every corner and crevice. When he stroked the roof of her mouth, her fingers curled into his shirt, a fist that was torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. The rest of him seemed to awaken with his kiss. His arms had coaxed her away from the wall. They were wrapped firmly around her, molding her body to his from knees to torso in one unbroken line. She could feel the hardening contours of his body. She could feel him, against her, inside her head, around her. She couldn't stop him. She didn't want to. It felt too damn good to give in to their inevitable supernova. It was only a matter of time before he destroyed her.

His lips broke away from hers. They were both breathing hard, but it didn't stop him from raining delicate, deliberate kisses across her cheeks, down her neck and back up to the point where her jaw met her ear. He licked her. He sucked at her earlobe, and she whimpered something incoherent. She couldn't think. She wanted him like this, hungry for her, feeding her own rampant obsession. Maybe she could be okay with the physical release. He didn't need to stop loathing her if he could put an end to this raging emptiness. His hands skated up her sides from her hips to the sides of her breasts. He pressed her breasts together and lowered his head to the vee of her scrub top. He rubbed his nose against her collarbone, then his lips ghosted over the cleft between her breasts, deepened by his hold. She tangled her fingers in his beautiful hair and pulled him closer. He went willingly and tongued her there for a few heart-stopping seconds, then his mouth abandoned this pursuit in search of hers. As he kissed her long and hard, he took full-palmed possession of her left breast. She moaned, but he devoured the sound hungrily, his hand weighing her through the thin flimsy bra she wore. He squeezed once then fell into a circular motion, his thumb singling out the hardening peak. Her nipple pebbled against the coercion of his nimble fingertips. And he kept kissing her, like the whole world hadn't contracted around them, around the touch of his hand against her, the taste of his persuasive mouth on hers.

He pulled away and swore extensively. She wasn't sure why, and she didn't particularly care. With her arms securely wrapped around his neck, her lips wandered along his chin. She nipped his jaw, her tongue loving the rasp of stubble as it traced a path to his ear. He was still muttering expletives and his hand had left her breast to sit on her hip. Without warning both hands slid to her buttocks and pulled her lower body tight to his, where a full, heavy erection fit snugly, perfectly in the cleft between her legs. This was wrong. This was terribly, horribly wrong. But she couldn't bring herself to stop him, couldn't stop whimpering and moaning wantonly when he thrust against her. He made a rhythm of it, like he would if they had both been naked and begging for release. She found herself responding to it, lost in the unexpected, dizzying pleasure that built inside her slowly – agonizingly slowly. He was treating her other breast to the same tireless massage, his face buried in her neck, kissing and biting and sucking. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, the hand that wasn't on her breast pressed between them. It found the flushed, throbbing mound between her legs and cupped it reverently. She gasped his name, and he nibbled her collarbone. His thumb found the little nub of flesh through the cotton of her pants almost as easily as it had sought the crown of her breast. He pressed and rolled blindly, guided by the catchy rhythm of her breathing. He lowered his head to her breast and moistened her shirt in a desperate attempt to taste her. The feeling building inside her reached an unbearable crest, lingered, held. She couldn't fall, couldn't tumble into the endless abyss of mind-numbing pleasure his broken gaze promised now as it stared down at her. He kept touching her breast, rubbing her swollen sex, watching her face, and she felt herself flush with the intensity of it all.

"Let go," he whispered in her hair, and the sound was shattered. "Give into it," he urged her and pressed closer still. She felt him against her hip, smooth, hard and unsatisfied. He let out a groan, and it could have passed for anguish. It left her undone. One minute she was still standing against that wall, and the next she had melted into a puddle of mindless, hot white elation. She made a noise that sounded nothing like her before Derek caught her in his arms and dropped onto the bed, cradling her in his lap like he wanted to protect her from something, maybe even from himself. It was a farfetched thought, but she basked in it until her limbs felt more consistent than sacks of jelly. She stirred, and he lifted his chin from the top of her head.

She left his embrace and stood up with more certainty than her body allowed. Her hands were still trembling as she looked down at him for the first time since this interlude had begun. At first he didn't meet her gaze, too busy rearranging his body to hide the immutable evidence of his desire. It was an impossible feat. Scrub pants were not exactly discreet. He gave up and lifted stark, tortured eyes to hers. His eyes were blue-black with ungratified desire.

He looked crestfallen – miserable. There were no words in his eyes, just truths that neither of them was ready to acknowledge. She took one last look at him, this broken beautiful man, who loathed her but sought her pleasure with a doggedness that left him unfulfilled.

She could not begin to comprehend this or him.

"Meredith," he said at last – slowly, heavily.

She vaguely remembered shaking her head before she turned around and fled the scene.

* * *

A/N: They're two very tortured people who can't seem to stay out of each other's hair or keep their hands off each other. They're both fun and draining to write. Dark, tortured Derek is a writer's dream - mine at the very least. Reviews are love xo


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